


You're A Car Crash (And I Can't Look Away)

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [13]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, F/M, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, Multiverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4092775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out on a mission with Kate, Clint falls through a portal and lands in the vicinity of what looks suspiciously like his childhood home. Things only get weirder from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You might suspect it from the summary, and you are correct: 616!Clint falls through said portal and lands in the MCU. Set post AOU in the latter and somewhere between the end of the Fraction run and the start of the Lemire run in the former. 
> 
> For the record: this will become MCU!Natasha/616!Clint, the MCU versions are not, have never been, and will not get together. The concrete idea for this wasn't entirely mine -- I saw a post putting them together on my dash and went YES GOOD, I WANNA TRY THAT -- though aforementioned post talked about porn and this quickly grew plot on me. Lots of plot. Ooops? 
> 
> In the interest of full disclosure, I usually don't do multichapters with regular updates, I mostly write everything and post the whole enchilada in one go. But I wanted to give the format a go here, because I think the story might benefit from it. I'll aim for 5-10k updates roundabout once a month, but yes, experiment here, and although I'm determined to finish this, it might take me a while to get there. The rating will change as we proceed, and I'll add character tags for everyone else who makes an appearance. 
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82 and enigma731, thank you both! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Car Crash" by Three Days Grace. I had a different working title, but then I jokingly suggested this one to my cheerleading squad and got outvoted, so here we are. XD

Portals, by a general rule, are never a good thing. Not ever. In theory, they can lead to magic fairytale lands or get you to every place you ever wanted to go in a heartbeat, sure. But in reality? That's not what happens. They usually have something or the other to do with time travel – last time, it was dinosaurs in Manhattan – or they're related to the multiverse. Clint _hates_ the multiverse. 

Judging by the displeased huff Kate gives when she enters the vault a few seconds after him, he's not the only one. She walks past him, inclines her head at the metal half-circle rising from a nest of cobble stones on the floor. A floating sphere at its center spits out faintly iridescent red light, shot through every so often by miniature bright-white lightning bolts that bounce off the frame. As portals go, it's pretty standard, Clint'd say. Not like he's an expert on the topic. He's just speaking from experience. 

“Wow,” Kate says, looking way too taken with the sight in front of them, as she snaps a picture with her phone. “I'm going to send this to America. Which is only helpful if she's anywhere with cell reception, of course, but maybe she knows what this is.” 

Given that America _is_ the resident expert on multiverse travel, that's not entirely unlikely. Clint rounds the portal, keeping a safe distance. “Honestly, I'm more concerned with how we'll turn it off. The nerds can go and turn it inside out once they get here.” 

“I'm tempted to just shoot an arrow at the center and see what happens,” Kate theorizes out loud – or at least he hopes she's theorizing, because no, terrible idea – and steps even closer to the thing. 

“Do not,” he says, half-tempted to pull her back by the lapel of her suit,” shoot an arrow at it.” 

Kate whips around and glares. “I said I'm _tempted_. I won't do it. I'm not that stupid.” 

Clint suspects there's no way to reply to _that_ without getting himself into trouble, so he opts for a slight change in topic. “What do you think was in the other vaults? If a damn _portal_ is just part of the collection, then I'm not sure I want to know what else they have hidden away down here.” 

“No, I'm with you there,” Kate replies, turning back to the portal. “I don't want to know either. SHIELD's scientists can deal with that once they get here.” 

She leans forward, too close for his taste, and he's about to point that out and ask her to take a step back when the portal _reacts_. It must have sensed her proximity or something, because the frequency of the lightning strikes emanating from the sphere doubles up, becoming more erratic. The red glow gets more intense, like clouds of light floating into each other, a fog lit from within. For a split second he watches as it wafts towards Kate, then he's by her side and pulling at her to make her back off with him, but it's like she's paralyzed, hypnotized by the light. This close, he feels the pull of it himself. It's like he’s forgotten every good reason to stay away – he knows that he should, but can't remember why he should give a damn. Almost at the same time, both he and Kate reach for the sphere, but he's taller, his arms are longer, and he's closer to the center so he's the one who reaches it first. 

The world narrows down to a small point, the rest of it zooming past like a speeding train, and then he's falling, further and further into a sea of red and white, until he hits solid ground. His hearing aids are buzzing at him, apparently not too happy with the sudden change in altitude, Stark-issue or not. Disoriented, he shakes his head and blinks a few times. He's not in the vault anymore, that's for sure. He instinctively gropes around for his bow but comes up empty; he’s lost his quiver too, its comforting weight gone from his back. He's lying in high grass, wet with either rain or early morning fog; the sun's just rising over soft green hills. The area is familiar to him, in that eerie way where you're not sure whether you've actually been to a place or if it's just that you've seen enough other places like it that they blend together and create the illusion of familiarity. He cranes his head, looks around, and curses when he sees the house in the distance and recognition settles in. Yeah, well. He's definitely seen _that_ before. Not in a good twenty-five years, though, not until he and Barney got carted off to their first orphanage and for the next little while, life got even shittier than it was before. 

He sits up, reluctant to stand and give himself away before he's got a better handle on the situation. It occurs to him that he never bothered to find out what happened to the farm – he'd always figured it was seized by the bank to pay for debts his father had or the like – but as it stands now, it looks lived in. There's a car parked in the driveway, recent model, and kids’ toys strewn all over the porch. With a little luck he's still in his dimension and just got teleported, and all he's got to do is alert the Avengers to his location and wait to get picked up. 

He calls out Kate's name, unsure whether or not he wishes she got transported here with him, finds he's relieved when there's no answer. Wouldn't make sense either; this place is deeply personal to him, and _if_ Kate got swallowed by the portal as well then she probably ended up somewhere that's equally personal to her. 

The buzzing in his ears slowly recedes and he listens in to the noises around him, not hearing anything out of the ordinary. He decides he's done sitting around, curiosity winning over the sort of strategic thinking he was never all that great with in the first place. Besides, there's _kids’ toys_ on the damn _porch_. Time to meet the new owners of his childhood home and see if they're going to let him make a phone call. 

Clint rubs the dirt and grass off his uniform as good as he can and marches down the slope. There's a light on in what he figures is the kitchen, and so he doesn't worry too much about disturbing anyone at an ungodly hour and just knocks on the front door. After some rummaging inside a woman opens the door, dark-haired, wearing a summer dress, a baby blanket slung over her shoulder. She seems tired, hardly awake, and she looks him up and down with barely concealed mistrust on her face. 

“Yes?” she says. “Can I help you with anything?” 

He wrings his hands, smiles at her and hopes it looks trustworthy and encouraging rather than nervous and uncomfortable. “I was just wondering if I could make a quick phone call? Five minutes, tops, and I'll be out of your hair.” 

It's obvious that she's not a huge fan of the idea, seems to weigh the inconvenience of having to invite him into the house to make the call against the likeliness that he'll make a scene if she refuses. Eventually, she opens the door wider and gestures for him to go past her. 

She points at a landline phone, fixed to the wall just a few meters away, her stance and the warning quirk to her eyebrows leaving no doubt that he's expected to not take one single step further into her home than he needs to reach it. “Go ahead. Five minutes.” 

Clint nods his thanks as he strides over to the phone and picks up the receiver to dial. The call doesn't connect, and he tries again. She watches him try a third time and sighs. “We have a phone book, you know. We could have a look. Who are you trying to call?” 

And that's the point at which he's likely going to find out whether he's still on good old Earth-616 or if he did, indeed, get thrown into another dimension. He swallows. “Uhm. The Avengers?” 

Her eyes go wide, sending an unconscious glance upstairs, where Clint remembers the bedrooms to be. Her expression turns even less welcoming. “Stay here. I'm going to... Just stay here.” 

With that, she marches past him and up the stairs and he waits, picking leftover dirt off his shirt and trying not to give in to the uneasy feeling that's spreading in his belly, until she comes back down with a guy – probably her husband – in tow. He's not making _any_ effort to hide his hostility. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, positioning himself between himself and his wife, leaving no other escape route than back out the front door. “What is this, a dumb joke?” 

Without knowing what exactly the problem is here, whether he landed on a world where the Avengers don't exist as such or where they're something entirely different, there's no elegant way to talk his way out of this one. So, lacking options, Clint goes with the truth and hopes for the best. “Well, no. I fell through a multi-dimensional portal and landed on the field in front of your house, and all I wanted was to try and call my friends and get back home. But apparently home is much farther away from here than I figured, and a simple phone call isn't going to cut it.” 

The guy’s eyes narrow, and okay, that didn't help Clint's case at all. “Your _friends_? So you're trying to tell me you're an Avenger? From another dimension?” 

“Uhm,” Clint tries. “Yes?” 

Wrong answer again, because the guy snorts. “You've got to be kidding me.” 

Clint takes a step back, hands held up in front of his body in an attempt to look as unthreatening as possible. “Listen, I'm sorry. Please excuse the intrusion. I'll leave.” He turns slowly, and he's halfway to the door when the guy calls after him. 

“Just out of curiosity, which one were you pretending to be?” 

Despite his better knowledge, Clint stops and glances over his shoulder. “Hawkeye.” 

Both of his hosts exchange a look that Clint parses as concern, and the next thing he knows, the husband's catching up to him, pulling a gun from behind his back and aiming at Clint. Well, _fuck_. He should've just left. Or he shouldn't have set foot into this goddamn house at all; it never did bring him anything but bad luck. 

“I don't know who you are,” the guy snarls at him, “or how you know who I am, but this really isn't funny.” 

Clint's inclined to agree, what with having a gun pointed his way. “I don't know who you are. Not sure I want to either. Just let me leave, and we'll all forget this ever happened?”

“That just ceased to be an option,” says the guy, turning to his wife. “Take the baby and go upstairs. Call Hill and Natasha. I'll deal with this clown.” 

Two familiar names in one sentence – Clint doesn't know a whole lot about alternate dimensions, but what he little he does know tells him that's not a coincidence. Maybe it should be comforting, in a way, but... Gun. Aimed at his head. 

As soon as the wife retrieves the reason she'd been up this early in the morning from the kitchen and beats it upstairs with the baby bundled up in her arms, the husband steps down the stairs, gun still raised. “So. While we wait for the cavalry to show, why don't you tell me who you are?” 

Telling the truth didn't serve Clint too well before, but he doesn't have anything else. “You're probably not going to believe a word I'm saying, but hey. Whatever. Name's Clint Barton – or Clinton Francis Barton, if we're being formal, but I'd rather we didn't. I'm from Earth-616, an alternate dimension to yours, but I somehow doubt that's going to mean anything to you just yet. And there, I _am_ an Avenger. Have been for the past decade, actually. We've got a Natasha Romanoff too, by the way, and a Maria Hill. That's who you were talking about, right?” 

At each of the names, something like unwilling recognition crosses the guy's face, but that's all by the way of a reaction. “Alright, you know how to use Google. Big deal. Neither of their names are classified anymore. What I really want to know is how you knew where to find me.” 

The last, well, not question, more of a command, is accentuated by a wave with the gun. Clint sighs. He could try to explain _again_ that he was spit out less than a mile away by a multidimensional portal, but that hasn’t done him any favors so far, so instead, he pars it down. “I grew up here. Well, for a time. Until my parents died and I got a nice little round trip through the system, but I doubt you're interested in hearing my sob story.” 

“You're even crazier than I thought,” comes the reply, but it must have been the right answer, because the gun comes down a little bit; not quite wavering yet, but enough to give Clint hope that his threat level is being reassessed. “How old were you when your parents died?”

If _lunatic babbling about weird portals_ is what gets him out of this pinch, then Clint's happy to play along. He couldn't give less of a shit whether the guy believes him; all he wants is to get out of here and try to figure out how he'll manage to get home. “Nine. My brother and me –“ 

The guy snorts, the kind of noise that’s supposed to be a laugh but lost its momentum halfway through. “I don't have a brother, and I was five. Get your story straight.” 

Clint's about to reply that yeah, well, it's his life and not a story, but on second thought, it clicks. The escalation at Clint claiming to be Hawkeye, the reaction to the mention of growing up here... He's not talking to a random inhabitant of his childhood home, he's talking to _himself_. This dimension's Clint Barton. A vastly different one, sure, but it's the only explanation that makes anything even approaching sense. Kate once told him that, in one of the alternate universes America took them too, _Kate Bishop_ was about Clint's height and had bright, carrot-red hair, so he figures this wouldn't be impossible either. He glances around, finds his theory supported by a target randomly leaning to a wall not three feet away, and comes up with an idea. 

“It's not a story, and I'm not getting my facts wrong because I'm talking about my life, not yours,” he says, holding his hand up again when the presumed other Clint takes in a breath to reply. It's a gamble, but at this point, he can hardly make things worse. “Let me prove it. Let me shoot.” 

The other's eyes follow Clint's line of sight to the target, and he snorts again. “If you think I'd just hand you a weapon you're even crazier than I thought.”

“Hey,” Clint says, nodding towards the gun still aimed at his head. “You're the one with the gun. We both know we're less accurate with it, but it's still faster than nocking an arrow.”

Other Clint's gaze flits from Clint to the target and back. “Okay. Fine. But not in here. I have a target set up in the barn.” He waves the gun in the direction of the front door. “And if you make one wrong move – “

“You'll shoot _me_ ,” Clint says, turning, arms above his head. “Yes. I get that.”

 

***

 

The two dark vans – SHIELD property, once, now plain black – look terribly out of place to Natasha, parked in front of the farm. These things don't belong with each other. For as long as she's known him, Clint’s made sure they didn't intersect. Now, for the second time in a few months, his official life invades his real one, and Natasha can't help but feel uncomfortable on his behalf. The reason for that has been contained in one of the vans, and is currently being interrogated by Maria. As she passes them, she only catches a glimpse of the man who claims to be another version of her partner – tall, blonde, looking utterly unperturbed by Maria's questioning – through the open back doors, and while she's curious, he's not her primary concern right now. 

She finds Clint in the barn, sitting on the ground and staring at one of his improvised targets. There's a single arrow sticking out of it – no, she recognizes, there's two; the second one split the first neatly down the middle. 

“I didn't know that was possible,” she says by the way of hello, lowering herself down next to him. She doesn't ask if Laura and the kids are okay; if they weren't, he wouldn't be sitting here so calmly. “A dumb trick from the movies.” 

He glances at her, doesn't bother with a smile. “Did it once. Dumb little pissing contest with a few other people when I was still shooting for sport. I was the only one who managed. Haven't tried it since.” 

His voice lacks any inflection, but she knows him well enough to catch the weight behind that statement anyway. “You believe him.” 

“I don't know,” he says and sighs, his eyes flitting to the target again. “I shouldn't. But he knows things no one should know. And he's good. Impossibly good. He didn't even look at the target when he shot the second one, he was looking at _me_ , like he wanted to see my face when I realized that he's right. Like he knew I'd be convinced by that.” 

Natasha follows his gaze. “Because it'd have been what swayed him.” 

“He also didn't even seem to consider turning either of those arrows on me,” Clint continues, voice low and eyes still pinned to the arrows, dust dancing around them in the bright morning light that falls through the roof of the barn in stripes. He sounds less like he's trying to explain his reasoning to her and more like he's trying to justify it to himself. “So if he's a headcase, I'm willing to assume he's at least not a murderous one.” 

“But you don't think he's a headcase?” she implores. In all honesty, it wouldn't be the strangest thing that ever happened to them, after gods and aliens and sentient robots almost destroying the earth. Multidimensional travel isn't that much of a stretch anymore. 

Clint shrugs, noncommittal. “I think I want him gone, and as far away from my family and this place as possible, for starters. I'll figure the rest out when we're in New York.” 

He rises to his feet and offers Natasha a hand to pull her up, which she accepts. “Sounds like a plan.” 

 

*** 

 

Maria Hill seems to be the same across universes, in this case: taciturn, not having any of his shit, and scary competent. She's also still SHIELD. Which is good. Clint can use some familiarity, right about now, even if it's her. She's not leaving him out of her sight for the whole drive to... well, somewhere. It's not in the city, that much is for sure. Once there, he's getting treatment befitting a shady spy organization – taking his uniform, his aids, and giving him a cursory medical examination right there in the cell they put him into – so he assumes she's in charge of _that_ too. Afterward, she shoves a pair of generic aids at him, staring him down until he reluctantly puts them in. 

“Our doctor confirmed your hearing _is_ impaired,” she says in a tone of voice that's so detached it makes her sound perpetually bored. He remembers that, too. “I'm sure you understand why we can't leave you with a piece of technology we haven't vetted, which is why you won't get yours back at this time.” 

The most effective way to get Hill off your back, he's found, is play the fool and go along. Maybe it'll work with this one as well. “Pesky political correctness, eh?” 

She ignores that, picks up the tablet in front of her and swipes a few times. “Alright. Let's get the basics out of the way. I hope you'll make this easy for both of us and answer my questions truthfully. Full name?” 

“Clinton Francis Barton,” he says, doing as he's told and suppressing a grin. 

The long-suffering sigh she gives in reply is rather satisfying. “So you're going to be like that, then. Fine. Date and place of birth?” 

“June 18th 1981 in Waverly, Iowa.” 

She types that in and moves on. “Marital status?” 

“Divorced.” 

That makes her pause. “Huh. Former spouse?” 

“Bobbi – I mean, if we're being correct, Barbara Morse. Mockingbird. You got one of those, too?” And somehow it didn't occur to him before, but he's not sure if he'd want that; meet their Bobbi, their Kate, their... well, their everyone, basically. Having their Hill be similar to the one he knows holds a certain comfort, but she doesn’t mean anything to him. Meeting different versions of people he loves, though, he'll have to figure out how he feels about _that_. Granted, he'll have to get out of this cell first. 

“We do.” She cocks her head to the side. “Morse? Seriously? For how long?” 

The implication that they're an unlikely couple _does_ make him want to meet their Bobbi; they always have been a mismatched pair. He never deserved her. “Why, Agent Hill, do you need that for your questionnaire or is this plain old curiosity?” 

Hill's face slips back into a rigidly professional mask. “Answer the question.” 

“Six years.” 

She doesn't type it into her form, so he assumes it _was_ curiosity. “Direct family?” 

And yeah, fuck, that's the one he's been dreading. “Edith Barton, mother, Harold Barton, father, and –“ He has to pause, clear his throat. “Charles Bernard Barton, brother. All deceased.” 

“I'm sorry,” she says, her expression turning sympathetic. He's not stupid enough to think that means she's buying what he's telling her – she's merely responding to the emotion behind it. Maybe allowing that it's real for him, assuming him to be a sad lunatic rather than the world's least subtle terrorist. Voice softer than before, she asks the next question. “Place of residence?” 

“New York, Brooklyn, Bedford Stuyvesant. I'd give you the exact address, but given how your me is holed up in Waverly, I have my doubts you'd find anything there.” Upon her raised eyebrow, he rattles down the address anyway. No sense in appearing uncooperative. He just hopes the poor soul who lives there in this dimension has good household insurance. 

Hill nods and types it in. “Occupation?” 

“Avenger. Well, if you call that an occupation? I mean, it comes with health insurance and monthly pay, so you could probably call it that. Feels weird, though –“ 

“That'll be all for now,” she cuts in, glaring – apparently he's used up his grief-related sympathy bonus – and puts down her tablet. “I'd ask you why, out of all of them, someone decided to present us with a bootlegged Barton. But I probably won't get an answer for that one.” 

 

***

 

Whoever he is, Natasha's sure this is far from the first time he's landed himself in an interrogation room. He's sitting with his arms crossed behind his head, his legs sprawled wide, a deceptively open pose – playing dumb, trying to con his captor into thinking he's an easy mark. But the way he tracks everything that happens inside the interrogation room, alert and focused, gives him away. That isn't carelessness, that's _training_. 

“So tell me,” she says as she sits down across from him, resting her arms on the metal table bolted to the floor. “How does traveling between dimensions work, exactly?” 

He frowns at her like she's somehow disappointing him, like he's expected a more elegant line of questioning. “Fuck if I know. I just fell into a portal. The science of it is miles above my pay grade.” 

Annoyance; as good a hook as any, Natasha decides. “Which is what, exactly? Your pay grade?” 

“Avenger,” he says, accompanied by an extensive eye roll. “Like I told Mr. Happy Family back at his farm already, then Hill, and three other agents since you put me in here. C'mon, Romanoff. I'm sure you can do better.” 

She hasn’t bothered introducing to herself to him, but recognizing her isn't going to earn him any points. She's been a news item more than once at this point. “You know her well, that other me? Your Natasha Romanoff?” 

“As well as anyone could, I suppose.” There's a flicker of emotion on his faces as he says that, the kind of micro expression that's impossible to fake and almost impossible to fully hide, an involuntary reaction to invoked memories or feelings. Maybe this is what Clint saw, too, back in his barn. 

“So you've known her for a while?” The weirdness of asking someone who claims to be _another Clint_ about his history with _another Natasha_ aside, she's also curious – more so since he seems convinced he's telling the truth. “How did you meet?”

“Yes, to the former. I've known her since I was nineteen. And to the latter, she seduced me.” He leans forward and smiles, a teasing glint in his eyes, but it looks amused rather than suggestive. “I was rather impressionable back then. If you asked her, she'd probably tell you I still am.” 

Natasha tried that tactic on her Clint too, when they first met, but he turned her down long before he even told her about his family and marital status, citing her age and her state of mind. Apparently this Clint, if he's telling the truth, was above such petty concerns. Granted, he was younger, but so would've been his Natasha... She wrinkles her nose. 

Her disdain doesn't go unnoticed. “What is it? Not approving of her taste in men, or my taste in women?”

The seasoned spy in her wants to shrug this off. The woman who imagines another Natasha, hardly a teenager, yet using sex as a distraction method with the man in front of her and _succeeding_ , would rather kick him in the balls. She settles for crossing her arms in front of her chest and staring him down while she decides which one she'll go with. 

_”What?”_ he repeats. The smile has vanished, leaving confusion and uncertainty in its wake. Then something seems to cross his mind, and he shifts in his seat. “Wait. How old are you?” 

“Excuse me?” Needless to say, that's not the question Natasha expected next. But she’s curious. “Thirty-one.” 

He squints at her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but... actually thirty-one, or looking like it?” 

“I was born in 1984,” she answers, unsure of what he’s getting at, what difference it’d make. 

“I'm guessing you got the wrong impression here, then. Your Clint is what... Forty? You're younger. And you think my Natasha was too. You're wrong.” He grimaces, probably wondering if he needs to point out the exact nature of her error. “She's decades older than me. Born in the Twenties, or the Forties, no one's sure at this point. Not even her. I didn't... I didn't let a little girl spread her legs for me.” 

For all the improbability of his story, she still can't find any signs that he's not telling the truth, just reciting a story he rehearsed. He seems genuinely upset by the mere insinuation, but still, what he's saying doesn't make _sense_ , and neither does the eerie feeling that he _knows_ her, can read her better than most of the people she's worked with for years. “So she's what, immortal? Time traveler?” 

He shakes his head, apparently not thrown by either suggestion. “No. Super solider serum, or at least something similar. Like Steve... Captain America? You've got one of those too, don't you?” 

“We do,” Natasha confirms, a chill running down her spine. She thinks about Zola and Barnes and their working theory as to how he's still alive, and doesn't doubt for a second that her handlers wouldn't have hesitated to use it on their girls if they'd had access to it. “So in your reality, the Red Room had the serum?” 

“They did.” He narrows his eyes. “Romanoff, are you saying you believe me?” 

“I'm not,” she says, but the truth is she's not sure. She was before she came in here, talking to him, and she wouldn't have thought that opinion would change. It's not often the result of an interrogation manages to sway from the expected outcome; most are rather predictable, and she _is_ good at her job. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out the hearing aids they took from him when they first brought him in and puts them on the table between them. “You might like these back.” 

Instead of reaching out to gather them, he leans back in his chair. “So you've deemed them non-explosive or whatever it was you guys thought they would be?” 

“We tested them. No bombs, no trackers. Nothing that matches existing aids on the market either, though.” Stark called them _the work of a genius on par with himself_ , actually, but that's not information she sees any benefit in sharing. “Where did you get them?” 

“Stark. Custom-made. He's a show-off, but they're really miles better than anything I had before.” He smirks. “Good to know he resisted the urge to put trackers in them, too. Told me he didn't, but with that guy, you can't ever be sure.” 

Well, that _would_ explain things. “You're not going to put them in?” 

“I don't trust _you guys_ not to have screwed around with them, to be honest.” He does glance down at the table, but catches himself quickly, looking up to meet her eyes again. “So no. Not putting them in.” 

“But you're using the ones we gave you?” she asks, and even before she's completed the question, she's got a hunch about the answer. The way he's been staring at her the whole time, always angling his head in the direction of the sounds around him... 

“Uhm, actually,” he says, and she finds her suspicions confirmed when he bends to fish the generic aids out from behind the flap of the sneakers they've given him. “I'm not.” 

She doesn't ask how he managed to follow the interrogation if he can't really _hear_ anything. Compensating for any senses she might've had taken away in captivity was part of her training. Since he's able to use aids he can't be a hundred percent deaf, and if he's good at lip reading... it's possible. 

_You don't trust us?_ Natasha signs and he raises his eyebrows in appreciation, although she can't see any hints of surprise over the fact that she knows sign language in the first place. Which yeah, if he ran into a Red Room trainee before, be it another version of her or just any other Black Widow, he _wouldn't_ be surprised. 

“Would you?” It's a rhetorical question, he doesn't give her the opportunity to answer. “Besides, you've got me caged in an interrogation room. Not really trust-building behavior.” 

There's not really anything she can argue back – he's right, and she wouldn't – so she reroutes a little, going back to verbal communication; he’s probably better at lip-reading than she is at signing, considering she didn’t notice he was doing it until now. “Were you born with impaired hearing?” 

“No.” He puts the second pair of aids on the table next to his, now that he's done pretending. “It's been, hm, let's say, a recurring theme.” 

It’s the kind of answer that’s just vague enough to leave room for several alternatives; repeated head trauma or an isolated incident with long-term consequences, could be both. “What happened?” 

He shrugs, but it's not as cavalier as he probably meant it to be, laced with too much pain, a tell-tale stiffness that causes the motion to lag. “The last time? Someone stuck my own arrows into my ears.” 

The mental image of someone doing that to _her_ Clint almost makes her wince in sympathy. _Almost._ “And the other times?” 

“In the past, and not relevant,” he replies, face hardening. 

They're anything but irrelevant to him, she suspects, but she's not going to put in the effort and get to the bottom of that right now. Natasha's heard enough, for the moment. He's sticking to his story, doesn't deviate or use repetitions that'd hint at a rehearsed cover. He _thinks_ he's telling the truth. Medical scans will confirm or disprove the bit about his ear injury, or at least determine whether it's likely or not. She stands, picks up both sets of aids, and leaves the room. 

 

***

 

Out of interrogation, and on to medical examination. Clint's not sure that's an improvement; at least in the cell he felt like he was on familiar territory, been there, done that. Being surrounded by doctors will never not make his skin crawl. They're doing the same tests he’d been through just a few months ago, right after it happened, and the reminder is anything but welcome. The young Asian doctor who seems to be in charge smiles at him encouragingly, and he wants to smile back, make her feel like she makes _him_ feel better, but it'd be a lie. 

She leaves after the first bout of tests – if they'd been done, he'd be on his way back to the cell – and for about half an hour, Clint's alone, left to soak in unpleasant memories. Then the door opens, and he expects to see their Natasha, seizing the moment to poke him some more while he's off-balance. Instead, their Clint steps into the room, surveys the medical equipment and the monitors and basically everything else that _isn't_ the weird guy who's claiming to be another version of him from a parallel universe, before he finally huffs and looks Clint dead in the eye. 

“Deaf, huh?” 

Considering they're supposed to be the same person, sort of, Clint's got a pretty hard time reading him. Maybe it's the spy training – the other one's been SHIELD, that much he's gathered – or just that Clint never spent much time self-reflecting. He never _wanted_ to know himself all too well. “Not entirely, but yeah.” 

“The doc says your injuries would fit what you told Natasha,” he says, with the kind of expression that means, _it could've been me_ and also, _what if it_ had _been me_. “What happened? Who did this?” 

Clint shrugs his shoulders. “Mundane story, really. Comes down to real estate disagreements. In case you're worried it might happen to you too, somewhere down the line, don't. Unless you sell your farm and move into a crappy apartment in Bed Stuy, that's highly unlikely.” 

“I'm not.” He looks away, and the next couple of words get lost, until he seems to remember that Clint needs to see his lips in order to piece together what he says and faces him again. “I think it's awful, is all.” 

He looks sincere, but Clint can't quite manage to keep the sarcasm out of his reply. There's very few people he'd accept pity from, and that list apparently doesn't include _himself_. “Well, I appreciate the concern.” 

The other one sighs. “Whatever. I'm here to give you these.” He holds out his hand, Clint's hearing aids resting in his open palm. “Nat already tried, and you don't have any more reason to trust me than I got to trust you, but... We didn't tamper with them, I promise. Use them. Don't make this any harder on yourself than it already is.” 

And yeah, Clint's sensor for parsing the behavior of his alternate selves might be calibrated badly and they're not _really_ the same person, but even he isn't beyond reading neon signs. “So you believe me?” 

“Not sure why, but yes. Yeah, I believe you.” He scratches his neck, looks away again, but this time he catches himself before he continues. “I've fought aliens and robots and one of my new co-workers is a dude who's been woven from artificial flesh and has an orb from outer space in his forehead. Alternate universes are starting to sound a whole lot more plausible than they would have a few years ago.” 

They _don't_ have a reason to trust each other. There's no invisible thread that binds them together; Clint doesn't know anything useful about the multiverse, but he knows this much. And yet, he takes the aids from him and puts them in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. Finally getting back to this. Sorry for the longer-than-intended wait. But! Here we are again. This chapter focuses mostly on MCU!Nat and 616!Clint -- which I suppose won't bother the lot of you too much, since I'm guessing that's what you're all here for, heeh -- but fear not, I have plans to examine the other interpersonal relationships involved in this too. ANYWAY. Enjoy!!

They’re sitting around a conference table, discussing the fate of the double. Imposter. Interdimensional traveler. Whatever. Natasha doesn’t really care for the terminology. Its been weeks, and the point of this little meeting is to determine what to _do_ with him in the long run. Not the full roster; there's her and Clint, because she's been involved in the interrogations and he's been directly affected, Maria as the one actually in charge of the other Clint's detainment, Steve as their leader, and Sam, because Steve values his opinion. 

“He’s still a potential threat,” says Maria, breaking the initial silence. “There’s no official record of him anywhere. Although I’m willing to admit he can get just as obnoxious and annoying as the original, so that fits.”

Clint huffs. “Hey!”

Not even the hint of a grin disturbs Hill’s professional façade, but Natasha knows her well enough to be sure she’s internally congratulating herself on the well-placed jab. “On the plus side, he hasn’t tried to contact anyone, he’s gone along with everything we asked of him, he does possess personal knowledge of some of us that wouldn’t be online or otherwise available, and the psych team we ordered in attests him full legal sanity. You know, considering the circumstances. ”

“He also claims he’s _from another fucking dimension_ ,” Sam points out. He’s probably the most empathetic out of all of them but he also still meets everything he can’t understand with a raised eyebrow, the kind of guy who trusts and believes in what he can see and touch and not much more. He's _grounded_ , in one word, and Natasha appreciates his approach to the more otherworldly problems they run into, assumes Steve does so too.

“So does Thor, in a way,” replies Steve, who’s so far been listening with a thoughtful expression. “None of us have been to Asgard, and yet we’re all trusting it’s there.”

Sam grimaces at him, but plays along. “Not the same thing. Has anyone seen Clint 2.0 wield a magical hammer, call up thunder, or teleport into the dimension he says he fell out of?” He pauses, looks around the table. “No? Didn’t think so.”

“And that boils down to what?” Steve asks. “Are you suggesting we keep him locked up indefinitely?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Sam sighs, looking a little bit like someone’s got him backed into a corner. “I just meant, we should be careful.”

“We have been careful,” Clint joins in. He's been advocating for the other's release for a while now, and it reminds Natasha of her early days with SHIELD. Almost ten years in, and he still won't hesitate to adopt a stray when his gut tells him they're friendly. “For three weeks, we’ve kept someone who didn’t give us any reason to assume the worst on lockdown. He didn’t threaten anyone, he didn’t hurt anyone, he didn’t try to kill me when he had the chance. He’s telling a story so out there that, as far as cover stories go, it’s useless for anything else than getting our attention.”

He glances towards Natasha for support, which she’s not sure she can give – she understands why he’s chosen to believe the guy, but she’s not quite there yet. So she settles for the facts. “I found no evidence that he’s lying. He might just be incredibly well trained, but he doesn’t act like a spy otherwise. I'd say he had some training, but he makes mistakes, he gets sloppy or emotional, but he doesn’t mix up his story. There’s no way to be sure.”

“But at this point there's less and less reason to assume he's hostile,” Clint argues back. He's not going to hold their difference in opinion against her, she knows; they don't have to agree on everything, and never did. “Look, I'm not saying we should throw all caution to the wind and let him walk out of here unsupervised. Let's just get him out of that damn cell.” 

"So we'll move him from the holding cell to a living quarter. Keep track of him, but quit treating him like a prisoner," Steve suggests, pausing to allow for dissent. Sam still seems slightly uneasy, but nods, Maria shrugs, but no one disagrees. “That's settled, then.” He looks at Clint, then Natasha. "And you two will be responsible for him."

 

***

 

Frankly, his assigned quarter isn't much larger than the cell. But it's above ground and it has a real bed and a TV set and lacks the see-through mirror, so he's not going to complain. After he's been unceremoniously escorted up here by Hill, the first thing he does is take a long, hot shower, safe in the knowledge that no one's going to be able to drop in unannounced or catch an eyeful in the name of _monitoring_ him. 

When he steps out of the bathroom, dripping wet and a towel slung low around his waist, he finds Romanoff waiting for him, sitting on the bed next to a stack of clothes. So much for no unsolicited visitors. 

“I thought you might want something to wear besides standard issue SHIELD gym dresses,” she says, nodding at the stack. “Had to guess your size, so I hope they fit.” She doesn't look away despite his state of undress, makes no effort to hide the way her gaze drops to his chest before she meets his eyes, not a hint of being awkward. 

“Thanks.” Holding his towel in place, he crosses the room towards the bed, bends down to pull out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He considers to excuse himself back to the bathroom, but hey, what the hell. “Do you mind?” 

She glances from the clothes to him, then shrugs and turns, facing away from him while he towels himself down quickly and gets dressed. The jeans don't quite fit, a little bit too big, and the shirt is a bit tight, but they'll do. He clears his throat when he's done, and she turns towards him again, pulling up a bag from between her feet that he hadn't noticed before. 

“Your uniform. We had it cleaned,” she says, holding the bag out. He takes it from her, peeks inside. After three weeks of being cooped up in a cell, wearing borrowed clothes and answering the same questions from the same people over and over again, there's a strange comfort in seeing something from home, something that reminds him of who he is. It makes his fingers twitch, his muscles ache. 

“Thanks for that too, I guess,” he says, and decides there's no harm in _asking_. “I've been wondering, uh. Free access to the facility, does that include the range? Assuming you've got one here?” 

“You want to shoot.” 

There's no question to it, no double take at him voicing a request like this just fresh out of detainment; she might not know him, but she knows someone kind of like him. Apparently she can extrapolate. “Yeah. I do.” 

She seems to weigh that for a moment, but then she stands. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” He didn't expect her to agree, and certainly not without discussion. “You don't have a problem with handing me a weapon?”

She eyes him, slightly annoyed tilt to her head, pulls up her shirt just enough to show him the gun tucked into her waistband. “For one, if you try anything, I'll have you dead on the ground before you can let fly. And also, Clint decided to trust you. I trust his judgment.”

Maybe the wrongness of hearing someone say his name when referring to someone else will wear off at some point, but for now it's still plain weird. He shrugs at her – hardly the first time a Black Widow casually mentioned she'd be capable of killing him before he'd realize it's happening – and wordlessly follows as she leads him through the facility to the range. It's fancier than what he's used to, sleek and clinical, like a shooting range from a cop movie, and not the down to earth, gritty kind either. But he's not in a place to be picky, and so he sorts through the training bows while she watches, frowns when he encounters a strew of extravagant compound bows. Hidden among other weapons, though, he unearths two good old recurve bows. They're basic and don't look like they've ever really been touched; it's possible some poor intern got yelled at for ordering the wrong gear once upon a time. Some more digging, and he's got a few fitting, simple arrows too. 

He steps back onto the range itself to find Romanoff watching him with her arms crossed over her chest. She glances at the bow he picked. “So you're hitting it old-school, then?” 

“Learned shooting on these, never moved past them. Guess I'm a creature of habit,” he says as he tests the bow, draws it back once or twice to get a feeling for it, then brushes his fingers over the arrows. 

From here on in, it's auto-pilot. Clint didn't have a bow in hand for weeks, but that's not a novelty per se; he's had hospital stints longer than that. The oddity of the situation as a whole, the uncertainty and the anxiety from being kept prisoner, fall away, and give way for single focus on the task at hand. He assumes his stance, visualizes the target, briefly closes his eyes and lets out a breath. He nocks, enjoying the way his muscles scream with the tension as they finally slot into their familiar positions again, and aims. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Romanoff watching him still, allows himself a smirk as he sees her gaze raking over his upper body, his back, clearly appreciative and still unconcerned with hiding that. It must be a familiar sight, the shooting, but something tells him she wouldn't ogle _her_ Clint quite like this. 

He lets the arrow fly, and both their attention snaps to the shot. It's not a perfect bullseye; he can be as good as he wants, no one's immune to the effect of lapses in training. 

Despite that, she nods at him. “Nice shot.” 

“I'm rusty,” he says, doesn't bother to keep a slight note of bitterness out of his voice, lets her catch the implication; it wasn't voluntary downtime. 

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't comment further, and he goes back to concentrating on his next shot, and the one after that. 

 

***

 

Natasha takes him for a tour around the facility the next evening, because even though it's not much by the way of sightseeing, it's better than the same two rooms and a hallway twenty-four hours a day. He doesn't voice an opinion, but gets up from where he's been sitting on his bed, watching TV, and she considers that agreement. 

She's not sure why she does it; her only duty is to keep an eye on him, not accommodate him or make him feel better. But it's going in circles in a weird way; back when she was new to SHIELD and out of place, it was _her_ Clint who made an effort to be welcoming and ease her in, and now she's got the chance to do the same thing for someone who's not really him, but maybe as close as it gets. It just seems like the right thing to do. 

She leads him past the common rooms and the rest of the living quarters and through the training halls, and it's only when they stand outside the building, looking at the green hills surrounding the facility, that she realizes he hasn't been outside in almost a month. He stands next to her, breathing in deep, squinting at the setting sun, and she wants to apologize although she can't figure out for what – they followed protocol, they were being careful, they didn't intend to hurt him – so she doesn't. 

“Do you miss anyone? From home?” she asks, purposefully keeping it neutral; wherever he came from, another dimension or a place here in their world, he must have left someone behind. 

He turns to face her, a wistful expression on his face. “More people than I would've expected.” 

There's a difference to when Clint brought her in: she didn't miss anyone or anything. 

“I'm sorry,” she says after all. 

“Nah.” One corner of his mouth turns up in a sad, lopsided smile. It doesn't reach his eyes; they still carry a sadness that can't be faked, no matter how good a spy you are – grief and loss and defeat, not displayed for any onlookers’ benefit but spilling over despite the intention to keep it hidden. “Not your fault I landed here, and really, whether you keep me in an underground cell or release me completely doesn't make a difference either. I still wouldn't know how to get back.”

She doesn't think, until this moment, that she ever really stopped to contemplate the impossibility of his situation in a light other than how likely or unlikely it was to be a lie, a ruse, a figment of his imagination. She didn't allow the thought that it _might_ be the truth. But here he stands, outside, in street clothes, more of a person than he's ever been to her, and everything about his stance, his expression, signals real pain and loss. She'd be able to deal with a liar, but this... she's not equipped to handle this. 

After they’ve concluded their little stroll and she's left him to his own devices in his room, she calls Clint. He seems somewhat startled when he picks up; he's been calling her every other day since he's gone home and left her alone with the task of babysitting his self-proclaimed other self – they agreed on that; Nathaniel is hardly a month old and Natasha is more than capable of keeping taps on their detainee all on her own – and she chided him for being overprotective during half of these calls. From his point of view, the fact that she's now calling _him_ might appear alarming. 

“How's it going? Did something happen?” he asks right off the bat, because they know each other far too well to try and be sneaky. 

“No, I just...” Over the years, they had many alternations of the conversation she's about to bring up again; this is the first time she's not just trying to understand what he saw in her, but trying to walk in his shoes. “When we first met, how did you decide to trust me? What made you so sure I wasn't going to run the first chance I'd get, or lying to gather intel?” 

“Nothing,” he says, sidestepping the actual question as he must put two and two together. “Everything. This is about him, isn't it?” 

“Yes,” she simply confirms. 

“It's not about trusting him so much as it is about trusting yourself.” He groans. “Wow okay, I know I sound like a fortune cookie, but, my point is, trust your gut.” 

As advice goes, it's perfectly Clint, although not particularly helpful. Her inner compass hasn't had a true north since she was a child. Her instincts are honed for survival, not figuring out who is or isn't trustworthy outside the field. All she ever needed to know was if someone was lying to her face to save their skin, or their mission. She hasn't used her withered people skills much since... well, since Clint, and recently Steve. 

“So how's he doing?” Clint asks after few moments of silence, pulling her out of her thoughts. 

“He trains, he watches TV, sometimes he reads. He complains about the cafeteria food.” Then she remembers something else, smiles to herself in anticipation of his reaction. “He uses the standard recurve bows you've been planning to throw away even before they moved your gear here.”

She can practically hear him frown. “Well, whatever makes him happy, I guess.” 

“Speaking of which, I've been thinking,” she says, following a spontaneous idea. “If you were your other self from a different dimension, what kinda delivery food do you think you'd like?” 

“You _do_ realize that, whether his story is actually true or not, we're still not the same person, right?” Clint sighs at her, then moves away from the phone to grouse at someone, demanding they put down whatever it is they shouldn't have had in the first place. “Ah, sorry for that.” 

She smirks, even though he can't see. “Answer the question.” 

“I have no idea.” Something clatters to the floor and Clint mumbles a curse, but doesn't step off again to intervene further. “He's a guy from the Midwest, though, chances are he'll appreciate a burger.” 

She thanks him and disconnects the call, pulls up the browser on her phone, and saves the number of the nearest fast food joint for later. 

 

***

 

That same evening, Romanoff shows up in his assigned quarters with a grease-stained bag of fast food and a polite smile that he's sure is rehearsed. He recognizes it from years ago, on the face of _his_ Natasha. The familiar urge to make her smile for real, assure her that she doesn't have to pretend, swims to the surface. A couple weeks in, and his lizard brain still hasn't quite learned to tell the two apart. 

“I decided it'd be inhumane treatment to let you live off cafeteria food alone,” she declares, wiggling the bag, and points at the bed he's currently stretched out on. “Do you mind?” 

He scrambles to sit up, and indicates the bed with his hand. “Of course not.” 

She pulls two paper plates out of the bag and divides the rest of its contents evenly between them; different kinds of burgers, french fries, some cheese sticks, too much for just the two of them, but hey, he's not opposed to eating cold fast food for the next day or two. 

“I hope I picked the right things,” she says and picks up a couple of fries. “I asked Clint and – “ 

“It's great,” he interrupts her, before she can go on about his other self some more. Not like he dislikes the guy, he seems decent enough, but, weird. So weird. “You can't go wrong with burgers or pizza.” 

They eat in silence, and afterwards, when she's put the rest of the food back into the bag and stashed it in his tiny fridge, he expects her to leave. She makes no move to do so, sits back down on his bed instead, legs folded underneath herself. 

“If you want to... I don't know, talk about the people on the other side, the ones you miss, I'm here,” she starts, but falls silent as she must have seen the incredulous look on his face. _That_ is not what he expected, and he's not sure if he wants to believe the offer is genuine, or if it's easier to assume it's another interrogation tactic. She lowers her eyes and clears her throat, and jeez, well done, Barton. 

He inhales, and sets upon repairing the situation. “I'm not sure that'd help. Sounds more like picking at an open wound, to me, at this point.” 

She smiles again, gently, patient. “So what do you think _would_ help?” 

“Distraction,” he replies, on a whim. “Not much of that to be had in here. Let's talk about your people. Your set of Avengers.” 

“Sure,” she says, and it makes him breathe little easier, that she agrees to a change of topic so readily. Maybe not an interrogation after all. “What would you like to know?”

“Tell me...” He stops. “I dunno, tell me something. Missions. Anecdotes. How'd you guys come together? What'd you encounter since then?” 

“Aliens in New York,” she begins. “Very dramatic.” 

He listens to her giving him an abbreviated version of the Avengers chronicles for this universe. It’s a much shorter tale than it would be in his world. She tells him about Stark shooting himself into space – sounds like him alright – and how she helped Steve shoot down helicarriers, about Ultron and a flying city. 

“So that's where we stand. A few new recruits, and one original Avenger short,” Romanoff concludes, folding her hands in her lap, and something tells him there's more to it than that. 

“Were you close?” Clint asks. “You and Banner? I mean, you were on the same team and all, but there's teammates and then there's _teammates_ , right?” 

She eyes him for a moment. Then she sighs. “We were... dating sounds like we're teenagers. It's complicated. I thought we had something – or could have had something – and then he ran away.” 

“Well. I think, if he ran from _you_ , he's an idiot,” Clint says, and the moment it's out he wants to smack himself upside the head – flirting with his prison guard might not be the best idea. Because that's what she still is, walks in the sun and burgers and gossip notwithstanding. 

“Sweet,” she says, the same slightly exasperated expression on her face he's seen on his Natasha many times over. And on Jess. And Kate. Might have something to do with him, that particular expression, if it also transcends dimensions. “But he didn't just run from me. He ran from all of us.”

“I didn't mean it like that.” He rubs is neck. “Well. Not just like that. The Natasha Romanoff from my universe is someone worth knowing in any case. She's fiercely loyal. We've been separated for more than ten years, and I can still count on her. And assuming you two are anything alike... If he's thrown that away, sorry, but he's an idiot.” 

She smiles, and this one, finally, looks honest and heartfelt. “Do you hand out compliments like that on the regular? Cause then I know why she keeps you around.” 

Clint smiles back, holding her eyes, and the moment lasts just a little too long. He knows this when she stands, smoothing out the creases in his bedspread that she's left behind, and excuses herself, promising to be back tomorrow. 

 

***

 

One of the key differences between working for SHIELD and working as an Avenger is the downtime. It's not idle time per se, there's still a new team to whip into shape, but while SHIELD always had countless balls in the air, the Avengers mainly exist to _react_. They're a last resort, and as such, rarely deployed. It's worse since Ultron; people seem to worry that involving them might end up doing more damage than good, and Natasha can't blame them. 

Luckily, there's still some of SHIELD left. The call from Maria is a more than welcome distraction. 

“I know you're busy babysitting,” she opens, “but if you're game, I've got something to lessen the cabin fever.” 

Never one to beat around the bush; Natasha liked that about her from day one. “I think I can shuffle him off to Rogers for a day or two. What do you have?” 

“A group of Enhanced on the loose in Toronto,” says Maria. “Hydra could be involved, but we're not sure. Find them, capture them if you can. I'll send you the specifics.” 

She ends the call, and barely thirty seconds later Natasha's tablet pings. She thumbs through the files; the group consists of two young women and a men. They're assumed to be sisters, and share similar abilities: telekinesis, levitation, and the ability adopt the state of any given element. Not the most dangerous Enhanced they ever encountered, but foolish to underestimate. Used the right way, either of these abilities could cause serious problems. Nothing she won't be able to handle thought; she pockets the tablet and goes to search for Rogers, to let him know he'll be on babysitting duty for the next few days. Then she goes to see her charge. 

He sits up the moment she opens the door, sets the book he was reading aside and tenses more than would be appropriate for a random visit, as if he knows this isn't another courtesy call and braces for bad news. “Did something happen? 

It's still uncanny, how well this stranger's able to read her. She never did consider herself an open book to, well, anyone but Clint, and keeping a tight lid on her emotions had once been a survival skill. “I'm heading out. A mission. Rogers – uh, our Captain America is going to be responsible for you whole I'm gone.” 

He stands and wipes his hands on his jeans, one from the stack she brought him. They're the only thing he wears, and she can see they're a little too large, hanging off his hips in a way that's... not at all important right now. 

“Take me with you,” he says. “I can help.” 

Natasha's surprised to find the thought is tempting; she's perfectly capable of going out without backup, but she's not used to it anymore. But there's sympathy and then there’s trust, and while he's started to earn the former, he's a far cry from earning the latter. She shakes her head. “I can't keep watch on you out there. It's too dangerous.”

“You've seen me shoot,” he argues, taking half a step forward, upper body swaying in her direction. “C'mon. I'm more use to you out there than I am holed up in here, and your Hawkeye's on leave, isn't he?” 

She knows he's up for the job; that's not the point. “I need to concentrate on capturing my targets, not making sure you won't run. You'd be a distraction.” 

He takes a deep breath, exhales, signaling exasperation. “I'm not gonna run. Where would I go?”

“I don't know,” she says. “That's the whole problem. I don't know you, I don't know whether you're telling the truth or if someone sent you or what your agenda is.” 

The way his face falls shouldn't bother her so much. “I thought you believed me. I don't have an agenda. No one sent me. Please, Romanoff, just _let me help_.” 

She's not sure what does it: the earnest hurt in his expression, the eagerness of his pleading tone, or the fact that she, indeed, does _want_ to believe him. Trust isn't given, it is earned, Clint taught her that, and how will she ever know if he's worthy of her trust if she doesn't offer him the opportunity to prove himself? 

“Fine,” she says, heading for the door. “Suit up. I'll get the gear from the range, and if you're not on the flight pad within the next fifteen minutes, I'm leaving without you.”

 

***

 

It's all kinds of wrong, probably, but being in the middle of a fight again feels _good_. His body is vibrating with adrenaline, and shooting when it counts just isn't comparable to hitting a static target. He's mostly letting arrows fly at random to keep the telekinetic kid busy, while Romanoff makes sure to have all of them on the defensive, at a distance, and their rapport is fluid and flawless and doesn't need too many words. Clint still doesn't give much of a damn about the theory that alternate versions of the same person must, somehow, deep down, be similar, but in this context that might just be true. She fought with another him, he fought with another her, and it's definitely working in their favor. 

On the downside, the location of their little showdown is working in favor of the triplets. After a few hours of playing cat and mouse from Canada and over the border, they've led him and Romanoff into an old, abandoned brownstone quarry, and there's plenty of stones for the telekinetic girl to throw, and there will still be when everyone else eventually runs out of their respective ammunition. 

As if on cue, Romanoff curses. 

“Last one,” she breathes out, sticking a new magazine into her gun, and she glances to his quiver – not much left in there either. Her face hardens. “Guess we're done playing around.” 

_Capture or kill_ , Clint thinks, his stomach churning painfully, while he watches her aim more seriously at the triplets. He screws his eyes shut when she pulls the trigger, doesn't want to see, but opens them again mere seconds later, hearing her curse again, this time in Russian, which is never a good sign. The gun isn't in her hand anymore, and he follows her line of sight to see the thing on its way to the telekinetic kid. He aims himself, to try and shoot the thing out of the air, give them a few more seconds to react, but it's too late; the kid's already got her hands on the gun, and she's pointing it in their direction. 

The shot echoes in the quarry, somehow louder than any of the previous ones, and moments later he feels a stabbing pain in his shoulder, bow clattering to the ground before he even realizes he's lost his grip on it.

“Barton. _Clint._ Fuck!” Romanoff swings around, throwing herself over him and dragging him further into cover in one motion, and it's weird as hell to hear his own name from her lips. She hasn't called him by his name since he got here, and he gets that, he does. It's too intimate, too confusing. He'll have time to ponder that later, though; right now they need to get out of here. 

Romanoff lifts herself off him, and he watches her peek out from behind the rocks they're using to hide, sees her body instantly relax. “They're running.” She turns back around. “You alright?” 

That's an excellent question, actually. He touches his shoulder, and his hand comes away covered in blood. _A lot_ of blood; the bullet must have hit something kinda important. He's getting dizzy, though at this point that's probably more from shock than blood loss. 

“Nope.” He waves his bloody hand around. “Not really.” 

“There's a first aid kit in the car,” she says, putting his hand back on his shoulder, and glances from his hand to his face. “Keep pressure on that, from both sides. Can you walk?” 

“For the moment,” he informs her, but she hooks his arm around her neck anyway, pulls at him to get up. He lets her, but pays careful attention to not put any real weight on her as they climb down to the car. She deposits him in the passenger seat, vanishes from his line of sight, returns with the first aid kit. 

He sits up, holds still so she can patch him up, studying her face. “So you finally decided I'm not Voldemort.” 

No reaction whatsoever; then again, he knows not to expect one. “What?” 

“He who shall not be named,” Clint explains, and it occurs to him that the series might not exist here. “It's a book – ” 

“So you've got Harry Potter in your parallel universe.” She stops to glower at him, almost done with the gauze, strip of tape in her hand. “It's really strange, calling you by his name. I assume you keep calling me _Romanoff_ for much the same reason.” 

“Touche.” He glances down to his shoulder. The gauze is already red, and he must be beginning to look a little loopy, but he grins at her. “Natasha.” 

She rolls her eyes, applies the tape, smooths it out. “This isn't going to do much good. Good news is, the bullet went clean through. But the exit wound is messy. You need stitches, and a couple hours rest. I'm going to take you to the city, it's closer than the facility. We can go from there.” 

“The city?” he asks, although he kinda knows the answer. 

“Yeah,” she says with a gentle smile; if he's not completely mistaken, that's a surefire sign he really isn't doing very well. “We had several safe houses in New York when SHIELD still existed, but I'm not sure which of them are compromised after Hydra. I guess that means I'm taking you home.” 

She starts the car, and for the next hour or two it's awkward silence or faint music from the radio. Now and then, she glances at him, and a few times she stops to renew the gauze. The world goes a little fuzzy around the edges regardless; his shoulder is still steadily oozing, and he estimates he's gone past a liter of lost blood. His heart has started to try and pick up the slack, jack-hammering in his chest. He's panting. 

New York's city limits find him lightheaded, and when they stop at her place, he definitely does need help to get up the stairs, hangs off her shoulders like a sack of wheat while she goes through a complicated looking procedure to unlock a keypad by the door. Reality slips from his grip, and the first thing that really penetrates his haze again is the pain from her disinfecting the wound anew; he doesn't recall making their way from the door to the bedroom, or her laying him down, but that's where he is now. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, a hand on his forehead. “I know this hurts. But I'll do the stitches now, and you have to keep still for that.” 

Clint blinks up at her, not quite able anymore to puzzle together what happened, where he is. He remembers the woman about to stick a needle into his flesh is somehow Natasha, and somehow not, but everything else is all wrong. He shakes his head, but it doesn't help him sort out the mess in there. “Where's Kate? What happened to Kate? We were – she was with me. I couldn't look for her.” 

“Kate.” Not-Natasha inclines her head, looking confused. Well, that makes two of them. “I'm sure she's fine.” 

“I need to – “ He tries to sit up, is stopped by her hand on his chest. 

“You're not going anywhere,” she says, brows furrowing, sympathy and bewilderment written on her face. “You've lost a lot of blood, and I know nothing makes sense right now. But I need you to trust me. Let me help. We'll figure out the rest after you're better.” 

He lets himself be pushed back down, and clenches his teeth through the stitches. Not much later, his body demands downtime, and, much against his will, he falls asleep in an apartment he doesn't know, next to a woman who is but isn't a stranger, part of a world he doesn't understand. 

 

***

 

After the stitches, stripping him carefully and washing the larger area of the wound, there isn't much Natasha can do. The bleeding does stop a little while later, and she lets him sleep all throughout the night; she showers, gets changed, texts both Rogers and Clint to let them know what happened and where they are. Around noon the next day, she gets a little anxious. She sets a plate with quickly made sandwiches, pours some orange juice, places both on the nightstand and gently prods him awake. 

He blinks, eyelids looking heavy, mumbles something intelligible, but his eyes focus after a moment and he gets his arms underneath himself to slowly sit up. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” she says. “How are you feeling? Do you remember where you are, who I am?” 

He gingerly touches the gauze on his shoulder. “When didn't I?” 

Natasha puts two fingers to his pulse point, tries not to take it personally when he flinches away. His heartbeat is steady and normal, at least. “You were really out of it yesterday.” 

“What, Agent Romanoff, were you _worried_ about me?” It's probably supposed to be quippy, casual, and he manages to make it sound that way, but the way his body tenses up betrays a nervous edge. Nevertheless, he grins, the flirty, somewhat cocksure kind that's begun to get to her. “I mean, Natasha.”

She refuses to let it lull her, though. “Who's Kate?” 

His expression sobers instantly. “What?” 

Joking off his emotions may be more his forte; he still fails hopelessly at straight-up lying. She doesn't have any doubt he knows what she's talking about. “You heard me. Who is she?” 

He stares at her, something akin to guilt flicking across his face, but doesn't try to front any further. “I talked about her.” 

She's not sure whether that's memory or assumption, but she nods. “Yes. You did. You were really worried too.” 

“Kate's my partner,” he says. “We found the portal together. At first I thought she might have come here with me.” 

“You don't anymore?” Natasha prompts when he falls silent. Keeping a fellow traveler from them counts as suspicious behavior; there's no way he doesn't realize that as well. 

“She would have tried to call in first thing, too, just as I did, and that would have landed her in a cell next to me. Besides...” He sighs. “I would've known. I'd have felt it, if she was here. I know that sounds stupid – “ 

Natasha shakes her head. “No, it doesn't. Sounds like having a partner.”

She smiles a little; he smiles back, until his gaze falls away and he starts playing with the edge of the comforter. “I didn't mean to lie.”

He doesn't add _to you_ at the end, but the implication hangs between them. There he is, this man who's both familiar and a total stranger. It's a little like someone had all the relevant pieces and put them together a different way: the eyes are the same, a lot of their reactions are similar, their sense of humor is definitely cut from the same cloth, but there's so much that's new and odd. He makes her skin tingle in a way that her Clint never did – he was already married when they met, and even if he hadn't been, she doesn't think anything would ever have happened between them. 

He must sense that she's still staring at him, because he looks back up, at her, and she finds some of the things she feels reflected in there. She holds his eyes, remembering that the juice and the sandwiches weren't the only things she meant to give him. She opens her palm and holds it out to him, two small pills inside. “Painkillers. I gave you some before you fell asleep last night, but they must have worn off by now.” 

Although he takes the pills, his eyes don't leave her face until he turns to get the glass of juice and pops them, followed by a few sips. “Thanks.” 

“I'm going to call Rogers, to send someone for you,” she says. “Get you back to the facility, and then I'll see if I can find the triplets again.” 

He shakes his head fervently enough that the movement makes him wince. “No. I'm coming with. Couple more hours, and I'll be good to go.” 

“You were _shot_ ,” she points out, rather redundantly. “There's a hole in your shoulder, remember?” 

“I've had worse,” he says, lips thinning. “I won't let you go back out there alone. I'll manage.” 

There's another similarity to her Clint; they both have little to no regard for their own well-being, and they're both stubborn as a mule. She could argue that _she'll_ manage without him, but she suspects he's aware. Protectiveness isn't often dissuaded by the knowledge that the person you want to protect can look out for themselves. “They bailed as soon as they saw you were hurt. I don't think they're in it for anything else than trying to save their own skin. I'll be fine.” 

He stares at her with a slight frown, one eyebrow raised, apparently having run out of retorts. _Those eyes_ , staring at her out of a face that's younger, softer, more open even when he's being confrontational, and it's fucking with her head. There's a spatter of dormant freckles on his nose and around his eyes that she didn't notice before; she catches herself thinking that he must look gorgeous when he's getting out more, sunkissed and tanned and with these freckles in full bloom. Her eyes wander; the sheet is pooling around his hips, which doesn't seem to bother him, and she sees another cluster of them on his shoulders. The rest of the world suddenly seems far away, trivial and out of reach; she knows she could put it back into focus, but she doesn't quite _want_ to break this spell. 

She glances back up to meet his gaze, holds it while she's reaching out to run her fingertips over pale skin, sees his eyes widen and his mouth fall open with surprise. He doesn't stop her or move away, though; he just keeps looking at her. Natasha whispers his name – _their_ name – and leans in so her forehead rests against his temple, suddenly just needing to be _close_ , to be near him, just to know how it'll feel. They stay like that for a few moments, suspended in time, sharing air. It's the point of no return; if either of them pulls back now, nothing will have changed. Leftover adrenaline, meds, sleep deprivation. Plenty of things to blame this on, pretend it never took place at all. 

And then he turns his head. 

The first kiss is tentative, an experiment, to taste each other and see what it's like. If it's too weird; he's another version of her best friend and she's another version of his first love. The knowledge alone should make this impossible. But it doesn't. It's like the first hit of a new drug, rushing through her bloodstream and making her lightheaded. She pulls back, holding his face still with her thumb on his chin; leans back in, licks into his mouth. He opens up to her willingly, and this one is slow, deep, open-mouthed and messy, the kind of kiss that has her wiping spit off her lips after they part again. 

He licks his lips, blinks, and it makes her want to _devour_ him with a ferocity that almost scares her. She climbs on the bed, folding her legs underneath herself, and he pulls her closer until she's half sitting in his lap, curled into his uninjured side. This time, he's the one diving in, and _fuck_ but he's good at this, kissing her like he might drown and she's his lifeline, his last resort, like he needs her to survive. 

They stop when she feels him playing with the hem of her shirt, and she sits back a little to pull it over her head. She's not wearing a bra, and his eyes drop to her breasts, up to her face, back down. His hesitation is brief, however – he hisses when he bends down, jarring his shoulder, but doesn't seem deterred. His mouth closes around a nipple, sucking gently. 

“Hey,” she says and moves out of reach; he might not care about hurting himself in the process of what they're about to do, but she does. “Scoot lower. Lie down.” 

The look he shoots her is downright deploring, but he obeys, scoots until he's lying flat on the mattress, and in the time it takes him to do so, slowly so he won't hurt himself too much, she stands, sheds her sweatpants and underwear. She folds the comforter back and kneels by his side, running her hands over his chest, his stomach, and past the waistband of his boxers. He sucks in a breath, legs widening unconsciously, grinding against her hand, but she denies him the pressure he's seeking. Instead, she hooks two fingers into the underwear on each side and pulls them down his legs, thoughtlessly throws them away, wanting to get him naked, see all of him laid out before her. Having achieved that, she allows herself a moment to just _look_. It's not all smooth skin, he's wearing scars; another bullet wound or two, incision scars from medical procedures, something that looks like a faded burn low on his thigh. Some other time, she's going to catalog them, ask how he got each and every one of them, what he fought and who he was with, but right now she wants to feel the weight of him in her hand, wants to know what he sounds like when she's touching him just the right way. 

Her fingers close around the length of him and he moans, his good hand grabbing a fist full of the sheet by her leg. He moves with her when she jerks him off, hips swiveling, pushing upwards into her hand. It won't be enough to get him all the way, too slow and shallow, but he doesn't seem to care; he's quiet except for the occasional sharp intake of breath, and a glance to his face tells her he's watching how the head of his cock disappears and reemerges between the tunnel of her palm, lip caught between his teeth. 

His eyes meet hers when he notices she's looking at him, and he blinks again. “C'mere,” he demands. “Come up here to me.” 

She gives him one last slow, tantalizing pull and moves up the bed, leaning in for another quick, filthy kiss. He chases her when she leans back, and she puts on a provocative smile. “So now that I _am_ up here...” 

His answering smile is a little bit wicked; he doesn't reply with words, simply leans up and hooks his good arm around her, positioning her how he wants her. Curious, she lets herself be moved until he's got her on her haunches, slightly elevated, legs a hand's breadth apart. 

“I wanted to touch you,” he says. There's no need to ask exactly where; he reaches between her legs, gently parts her folds so he can brush a finger through them. 

That first touch is electrifying, despite being light, teasing, barely there. He finds her clit with ease, rubs it with a little more pressure, causing a bolt of arousal to shoot up her spine; her turn to make noise and circle her hips in tandem with his fingers while he watches her without reservation or shame, seems to drink in every reaction, making her feel strangely self-conscious. He strokes the pad of his thumb over the opening of her cunt, inclines his head in silent question, and she nods, gasping when he slots one finger into her, then two, and scissors them; his hand is large enough that he can use his thumb to keep rubbing her clit simultaneously, making her body sing with pleasure, and she gives up on holding back, decides on giving him a show. Head thrown back, she moans, places one hand on his hip for support, runs the other up her own body. His gaze drops from her face to follow its path, and he bites his lips when she cups her breast, squeezes a nipple between two fingers. She grins at him, predatory, and he twists his fingers inside her just so, making her gasp, almost lose her balance. Not backing down from a challenge; she can appreciate that. And he's not letting up either. The constant pressure on her clit is beginning to skirt the edge between perfect and almost too much, which actually makes it better. She writhes on his fingers, pushing down on them, fucking herself, and notices he's watching her face again. She resists the urge to close her eyes; she's not sure she's ready for the level of intimacy that lies in letting him read ever every emotion, every blissful twinge as she feels her orgasm approaching. There's something in his expression, though, that makes her keep them open; it's earnest and astonished rather than leery, and she holds his gaze all throughout the final wave of pleasure, that feeling like her body is about to shake apart; she only screws her eyes shut at the very end, and he's reading that the right way as well, removes his fingers and places his hand on her thigh while she comes down. 

What he doesn't do is make any move to touch himself, and that's what makes her shift around just as soon as her brain's halfway back online. He _is_ still hard, the tip gleaming with precome, and she touches him, spreads the mess a little further; he squeezes her thigh and gives a low moan. It'd be downright cruel to draw this out much longer: his body is taut as a bowstring, the muscles in his stomach tense and on stark relief, his legs trembling, driven to the brink of orgasm already by having watched her climax. All it takes are a few well-timed tugs, and he's coming too, spilling all over her hand, his grip on her leg bordering on painful for a second, eyes wide open, gaze flicking back and forth between her face and her hand on him. 

She sits back to clean him perfunctorily with the sheet; it's ruined anyway from sewing him up yesterday, no way she's going to be able to wash out the blood. Then she lies down next to him, head propped up on one arm. 

“Okay,” he says, reaching out to trace a line from her collarbone to the swell of her breasts with his fingertips, and grins. “So that just happened.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I'm super sorry this took so long. I had a fat writer's block somewhere in there, during which I had myself convinced I'm terrible at longfic and keeping up a narrative and all that jazz and shouldn't even try, and then when I got over that this chapter kept growing and growing, as evidenced by the fact that it's almost as long as the two previous chapters combined. OOPS. 
> 
> This fic is very much still happening and has definitely not been abandoned, is what I'm saying. I have big plans for this baby, and I'm determined to make them work. ANYWAY. ONWARDS. Have fun reading!! I sure had fun writing.

The warmth of the body curled up next to him is confusing at first. Clint has spent the past few weeks either in a cell or alone in the small bed in his quarters, and even back home... well, let's just say, it's been awhile. Nevertheless, for just a second, his mind fails to supply him with information on where he is and who he's with, and catching up on that one comes with mixed emotions. He misses home. He wants to be here, with her, with this Natasha. In the long run, that might become a problem. 

Clint shifts, and a barely-there change in her breathing tells him he's woken her. Nothing else signals that fact; she doesn't startle or move away, nor does she speak. The hopeless sap in him wants to curl in close and hold her, but he doesn't know if he's allowed just yet, and so he resists the urge. Instead, he sits up, stretches and yawns. He gets up and shuffles off into the bathroom, giving her space. In there, he inspects the bandage on his shoulder, the wound underneath – she did a good job with it, not like he'd expected anything less. The wound still hurts, of course it does, but it stopped bleeding and there's no trace of the telltale heat that'd point towards a blooming infection. He's also still a little pale and shaky, which isn't unusual either and will fade in a few hours, once he's eaten and gotten on his feet, and has his circulation going. 

He takes out and checks his aids, puts them back in, rinses the foul morning taste out of his mouth with some tap water and realizes, belatedly, that his only clothes are still somewhere in the bedroom. Clint has never been overly modest – that kinda flies out the window after the first few times a bad guy has you chained up naked, anyway – and he's well aware that his body doesn't look too shabby. Even so he feels a shudder run down his spine, face heating, as he opens the bathroom door and steps back into the bedroom naked. Natasha seized the opportunity he's given her and he finds her already dressed, hair still in disarray since he occupied her bathroom, and when she sees him standing in the door frame her gaze slowly travels upwards before she locks eyes with him. 

“I have some spare men's underwear in the bottom drawer over there,” she says, her expression neutral, almost businesslike, and points to a dresser to his left. 

Clint doesn't ask why she keeps any of that around; her partner's a guy. Emergencies happen. Kate's got her own drawer at his place too. He quietly helps himself to a pair of plain gray boxers – a bit too small, but they'll do – and sits back down on the edge of the bed, careful not to infringe on her personal space.

Natasha stands the same moment his weight makes the bed dip, an awkward little post-hookup seesaw. “Your uniform is in the dryer. I'll go get it.” 

With that, she's out of the room, and he hears the front door fall closed mere seconds later. In a hurry to get away, then. Which just adds to the picture materializing in front of him: not the first time he's been someone's regrettable adrenaline-fueled one night stand. He recognizes the signs. 

He quietly waits until she returns, fifteen minutes later, to hand him his suit and take her turn in the bathroom while he gets dressed. The bullet hole in the shirt is sewn closed and hardly visible anymore – she must have done what while he was out. Once they're both ready, civilian clothes put on over their uniforms to avoid throwing off immediate red flags wherever they go, she briefs him on the whereabouts of the triplets – they'll find them the same way they did the first time, tracking their energy pattern or some shit. But they don't exchange single personal word while they trek downstairs to the car, the volume she sets the radio to in the car sends a pretty clear message as well, and he starts to wonder whether the issue at hand here is bigger than just _we got each other off out of the blue and now we need to talk about it_. Clint might be deaf, but he can read between the lines just fine, and this whole thing is starting to feel like a terrible mistake. _His_ mistake, probably. Interdimensional travel gives him a headache as it is, and navigating the fallout of having sex with someone who's the alternate version of someone he already had sex with in his dimension doesn't endear him to the concept. Is fingering the alternate version of his ex-slash-best-friend somehow a violation of her trust? Is it creepy? Just an echo of what he felt for her? Is it unfair towards this Natasha? Her behavior would point towards _yes_ in that respect. 

Those thoughts swirling in his head and lulled by the sound of the road, he falls asleep after roughly half an hour, measured by the amount of songs played on the radio since they started driving; occupational habit, that one. When he wakes, they're parked in front of a motel, and it's nearly dark outside. This Natasha glances his way, puts a hand to his forehead – he had no idea a concerned gesture like this could feel downright clinical – and nods at his shoulder. “How're you doing?” 

Clint sits up in his seat and rubs his eyes. “Fine. I'm okay.” 

That's not the entire truth – the painkillers have worn off, so the wound's throbbing something fierce and he feels a bit queasy – but he knows how to deal with that. He's had much worse. He's _fought_ in much worse conditions. 

She reaches into the backseat, hands him a wrapped sandwich and a juice bottle, and, once he's accepted both, points at the motel. “I talked to the manager. They've checked in here this morning. No one's home at the moment, so I spiked their room. Airborne tranquilizer. We'll just have to wait until it's taken effect.” 

 

***

 

Whatever the triplets are up to – and Natasha is very much tempted to find out, the wait making her skin crawl – it takes ages. She's already been sat in the car for more than an hour before Clint woke up, and time keeps ticking by, another half an hour, another hour, with no sign of the three kids. She's starting to think they bailed, made her and ran, and that she'll have to trace them again, keep on playing cat and mouse.

It's not like she minds. That's pretty much her job. No, what makes this stakeout hell is the awkward tension that's sitting in the car like a third actual person. She's about to mention it, dredge up an explanation of why she's been so distant upon waking up together, not the truth – she's not entirely certain on that herself – but something close enough that he might buy it, when, finally, there's movement in front of the motel. 

The cheap rental that rolls to a stand across two parking spaces looks like it had its best days early in the past decade, which would have made it Natasha's choice as well, nondescript and forgettable. The triplets enter it with grocery bags hanging off each their arms, and Natasha once again decides that these kids are merely on the defensive, not out to hurt anyone but also not far from it when they feel threatened. They're not evil – they're volatile. Either way, though, they'll have to be taken care off, locked up, and whether SHIELD is going to hold them or try and recruit them isn't currently her concern. 

Once they've entered the motel through the front door, Natasha pulls own the handle of the driver's door and turns to Clint. “I'm going to monitor the situation. You can – “

“I hope you weren't planning to say _stay here and wait_ ,” he says, moving to exit the car as well, “'cause that's so not gonna happen.” 

She considers _ordering_ him to stay in the car, but suspects that wouldn't have much of an effect. It sometimes works on her Clint, if she's authoritative enough to call back on his days in the military; on this one, it'd likely be lost, so she picks a different strategy. “You're hurt.” 

He looks at her, unperturbed. “I can still move my arm, which means I can still shoot, ergo I can still be useful to you.” 

Natasha sighs, well aware that she's on the losing side of this argument but not quite ready to concede. “You're in pain.” 

“Nothing I can't handle,” he says, and, without waiting for her next reply, gets out of the car. 

She curses under her breath and follows, catching up with him as he bends over the hood to retrieve his bow and quiver. There are only a few arrows left, but she's seen what her Clint can do with _one_ , so he's right about one thing: he can still be an asset to her. 

Done talking for the moment, Natasha gestures for him to stay back, get behind her, what with her being the more inconspicuous out of the two – guns are easier to hide. He obeys and slows his steps, follows her at a distance, arrow nocked and ready. 

The light's on in the room the triplets are renting, and if all goes well, the tranquilizer should already have been released and about to take hold. She sneaks up to the window, peaks inside, and, bingo. The three kids are out cold, laid out on the ground wherever they fell. All they have to do is collect them. Another hand signal to Clint and he's putting his bow down, jogs up to meet her while she readies the antidote to clean the tranquilizer out of the air, drags her shirt up over her nose while she releases it into the room, and unlocks the terrace door. They restrain the kids – better safe than sorry – and she calls in SHIELD to collect them. That's going to be a waiting game too; the days in which SHIELD had outposts all over the place are past. They sit down on the ratty couch, the unconscious triplets between them. 

Unsurprisingly, the uncomfortable atmosphere from the car settles back over them within minutes; it's like a change in the air currents, pushing in on them instead of just _being_ , and frankly, Natasha's had enough of it. She turns to tell him so: they're both adults, this doesn't have to be weird, but it dies in her throat as soon as she sees the dark patch on his shirt, right where the gun shot wound lies. It's not particularly large, but he's bleeding enough that it's visible through two layers of clothes, and that worries her. 

“Are you alright?” she asks, and it's a poor choice of words, giving him the perfect opportunity to deny that he's not, and he promptly does exactly that. 

“Yeah. Hardly more than a trickle, due to holding back the string.” He rolls his shoulders in demonstration, expertly masking the flash of pain that crosses his face at the movement; someone who wasn't trained to pay attention to even the slightest tells might have been fooled. “I'm okay.” 

Doctor Cho will be the judge of that, once they're back, but for now she's trusting that he won't risk passing out mid-mission. Natasha makes it through maybe three more minutes of awkward silence before she huffs a breath and turns her head to look at him. 

“Listen, about this morning,” she starts. “I didn't mean to be rude.” 

He meets her eyes briefly, then proceeds to look at his hands. “Don't worry, I get it. Been there before. Adrenaline, meds, it seemed like a good idea the time but on second thought, not so much. You don't owe me anything.” 

He does a pretty good job at making it sound nonchalant on the surface, but here's an undercurrent in his voice that betrays another layer to his words, has her convinced it's not quite so simple. _Been there before._ With whom? His Natasha? Other women? There's so much she doesn't know, about him, about his past, and it keeps her from piecing together the whole picture. 

“I do,” she says. “I owe you an explanation, at least, maybe an apology.”

Clint shakes his head. “No, you don't. We got each other off, you changed your mind. That happens. It's okay.” 

The thing is that she's not _sure_ she changed her mind. For all that she's a professional at playing men, using her looks and her sexuality to achieve a goal, she's far less experienced with romantic entanglements in her private life. Her last attempt backfired spectacularly, and this, them... she had no time to think about it yet. But while she tries to find the right words, explain that to him, he runs a hand down his face and stands. 

“I'm going to wait in the car,” he announces with a nod at the triplets, all three of them still out like a light. “Doesn't look like they're gonna wake up anytime soon, and we're in the kind of neighborhood where a fancy unoccupied SHIELD-issued car won't stay in a dark parking lot for long.” 

She says his name to hold him back, but he's already halfway to the door, doesn't even turn, and so she lets him go. SHIELD arrives a little while later, and he doesn't bother showing up for the handover, stays in the car and hardly sparring a glance at the proceedings in the room. By the time Natasha joins him, she's pissed enough that she doesn't give him so much as a greeting, simply starts the car, and he spends the majority of that drive either actually asleep or badly feigning it, a coward's way out when it comes to avoiding adult conversations. She could call him out on it, force the issue, but she doesn't want to _talk_ anymore either. 

 

***

 

Their arrival back at Avengers Boot Camp gets Clint three things: an overnight stay in the med bay, a long dressing down from this world's Rogers on how reckless it was to go back out into the field with Natasha before checking in with any sort of medical professional that makes him feel right at home, and, most importantly, the implication that this might not be his last excursion into field work in this universe. Before that, though, comes the doctor-subscribed recovery leave, which, in his case, means being confined to his quarters yet again. Natasha doesn't show up for story time anymore – he sort of expected that – so for the next week, the highlight of every day is a trip back to the med bay, having his bandages changed and his vitals taken. 

“Before the whole robots-making-a-city-fly incident,” the nurse says as she gently removes the gauze from the wound, politely ignoring his slight hiss, “we could have healed this with artificial skin. Stark put that back on the shelf.” 

In his copious free time, Clint's taken to googling. He spent hours reading about the mess in Sokovia and the political situation that's been brewing ever since. All in all, he figures, this world got off relatively easy in regards to Ultron, but that's one of the things he sees no merit in sharing. How bad it could've gotten, what may lie ahead, they don't need to know that. He smiles at her politely and keeps his mouth shut. 

Not the least bit fazed that her small talk went unacknowledged, the nurse pats the new bandage around his shoulder lightly, avoiding the actual wound, and smiles back. “You're all done.” 

Clint thanks her, slides off the cot and stands, stops dead when he sees Natasha walk past the glass doors of the med bay. Their eyes meet briefly, but she doesn't miss a step. It stings a little, just like her continued absence, but if he's honest, he's also relieved. He wouldn't know what to _say_. 

That doesn't keep him from hoping it's her when there's a knock on the door shortly after he's gotten back to his quarters. It catches him somewhat off guard, and he scrambles to at least shove the plate from the mess hall that's been on his bedside table since yesterday under the bed, just in case it _is_ her, before the door opens. 

The other Clint surveys the room, grinning. “How is it even possible to make that much of a mess in so small a space?” 

“I got _shot_ ,” Clint whines, settling back down on the bed for dramatic effect. “Moving _hurts_.” 

Predictably, that's not a very good strategy to use on himself. The other's eyebrows go up. “Yeah, sure,” he says, shaking his head. “Anyway, I'm not here to judge, I'm here to get you some fresh air. If you're up for it.” 

That's a question Clint isn't likely to ever say _no_ to, current hole in his shoulder notwithstanding, and he suspects the other's well aware of that fact. “Where're we going?” 

“Nowhere special.” He shrugs. “Out of this room, for starters.” 

 

***

 

Natasha isn't sure what she expected, but the fact both Bartons ended up at the range in the fifteen minutes between Clint texting her that he arrived and the end of her training lesson with Wanda is anything but a surprise. They've put their heads together over one of the high tech quivers, arguing animatedly, and really, what did she ever do to deserve being saddled with _two_ of those dorks. 

She sneaks up until she's only a few feet away, then loudly clears her throat. “Hey boys.” 

Both of them turn simultaneously, and her Clint starts in her direction to wrap her up in a hug. His alternate version stays where he is, glances at her with an awkward, tense smile and refuses to meet her gaze when she glances back. 

She doesn't get a chance to think about that further, because Clint is walking back over to the quiver where it's laid out on a counter, hand on the small of her back. He's babbled at her about this countless times and she could probably recite the design of these things in her sleep at this point, but it's good to have him here, beside her, geeking out over his gear; makes this place feel more like home already. So she listens, teases and quips when the opportunity strikes, and ignores the fact that the guy she got off in her apartment after he nearly bled to death just under a week ago can't even look her in the eye. 

The other excuses himself to the bathroom after a little while, and just a soon as he's out of earshot, her Clint fixes her with a look, and yeah, of course he would have noticed something's askew. 

“Okay,” he says. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?” 

Natasha shrugs her shoulders. “What do you mean?” 

“You _know_ what I mean.” He makes a face at her. “Did something happen on your mission that's got you suspicious again? Because I didn't expect you to be this wary anymore, not after what we talked about on the phone – “

“We had a thing,” she cuts in, because while she didn't plan on disclosing the encounter right away – none of his business who she does or doesn't sleep with, even if it's his alternate self – but she also doesn't want him to worry. And that's what the speech he launched into means; he's worried. And he'll keep worrying if she doesn't set the record straight. “Back at my apartment.” 

“A thing?” he asks. 

She rolls her eyes; he's not normally this obtuse. “A naked thing.” 

His gaze flicks to the hallway, where the alternate's vanished off to for his pee break. “Oh.” 

“It was spontaneous, spur of the moment, we haven't talked about it since, neither of us knows where the other stands,” she rambles, in part to get the shocked look off his face. “The whole thing is a bit messy, I guess.” 

He squints his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “Do you... uh. Do you have feelings for him?” 

Relationship advice is not a well-treaded topic for them, and even if it were, she figures it wouldn't be his forte. But he's trying, for her, and she appreciates that. “Yes. No. I don't know. Would it be bad if I didn't?” 

“Hey, either way, I'm not judging.” He holds his hands up. “But it seems like he's here to stay, at least for the moment, and you _should_ talk to him sooner rather than later.” 

“I know.” She elbows him, because this conversation is about to tip into weird, alien to both of them. “And I hereby promise that, should I find myself in need of an actual girl talk afterward, I'm going to call Laura.” 

“Oh, thank god.” He side-eyes her, but there's the hint of a grin flickering around his lips, and she hooks her arm into his and gives him a nudge, in time for the alternate to round the corner. 

She starts off in his direction, taking her Clint with her to meet him halfway. 

“And now,” she says as he's close enough to hear them, “wanna have a look at our other newbies? Wanda is doing well. I've been training with her when I heard you arrived.” 

They both shrug, the alternate keeps his distance but quietly matches her step, and all three head off towards the gym. 

Wanda is still in the training area, chatting with Sam and Rhodey, but they fall silent and turn at their entrance. Vision is nowhere to be seen, but that's not news; he doesn't need physical exercise like the others do, and Natasha isn't sure how to go about training and artificial lifeform born out of a computer program and an infinity stone anyway. 

“Another session?” Wanda asks, smiling eagerly – Natasha recognizes her studiousness as a distraction, a way to cover the grief over her brother, but she hasn't thought it necessary to address that. It's normal. They all have mandatory psych sessions. She's monitored closely, and doesn't need Natasha’s clumsy attempts at comfort. 

The alternate bats at Clint's arm to get his attention, and Natasha swallows the small twinge of jealousy – before their... encounter, he'd turned to her, she's certain. 

“So that's your Wanda Maximoff, huh?” he wants to know, and Clint subtly takes a small step to the side, out of reach, but he replies without missing a beat otherwise. 

“Yeah. That's her.” There's a certain pride in his eyes; they may have had a bumpy start, but Natasha knows he's fond of Wanda, considers her another stray he brought into the fold. “You close to your version?” 

Shuffling his feet, the other one blushes slightly. “We've been friends for a long time,” is all he says, but Natasha wouldn't have to be a spy to spot the signs that _friends_ isn't the whole truth. “Hey, did you guys encounter something called Doombots yet?” 

Her Clint seems to see it too, briefly glancing her way and rolling his eyes before he replies. “No, why?” 

“Ah, no reason.” The alternate looks from Clint to her, and back, eyes narrowing, and shrugs his shoulders. He points towards the hallway. “I better head back.”

 

*** 

 

After another week and a half of solitary downtime, Clint gets a clean bill of health on his latest assessment in the med bay, rounded out by a nice little round of inoculations and shots, and is then told he’ll have to be signed mission ready by no one else than Captain America himself. 

They haven’t dealt with each other that much yet, and it still startles Clint how _young_ the guy seems. Sure, he recognizes the general attitude and, just as the mentor Clint knows from home, this version radiates righteousness from a mile off, possesses the arresting physical presence. He even looks similar, in that well-shaped, roughly handsome kinda way. But Clint’s internet research – Wikipedia, so useful in every universe – included his potential team mates and despite being a war hero and having seen some shit, this Steve Rogers is technically not even thirty. Clint’s got him outdone in field experience by a couple of years, in fact, although he’s decided it would be unwise to point that out.

And so he literally sits on his hands, doing his best to look patient and obedient, while he waits for Rogers to read through the medical forms and printouts.

“Alright,” Rogers says and puts the chart down. “I take it you’ve just about had enough when it comes to staring holes into the walls of your quarters?”

“Understatement of the year,” answers Clint. On second thought – the command structures in this group still confuse him – he adds a mostly sincere, “Uh, sir.”

“Well, no need for that.” Rogers’s lips curl up. “You okay working with Natasha and Cl – I mean, our Barton?”

At some point, they’ll have to find a way to untangle the name thing. “Yeah. Sure.” 

It's still ice age between him and Natasha – lots of professionally distant smiles and clipped sentences – but hey, Clint's had plenty of practice when it comes to keeping the aftereffects of failed relationships or uncategorized hookups out of the job. And the reserved behavior of the other Clint... well, him and Natasha have been partners and friends for a long time. Of course he'd side with her. Awkwardness reigns all around, but no way he'll let that get in the way of his approval for field work. 

“Good.” Rogers gives him a pleased nod, the kind that means someone just solved a logistical problem. “Get dressed. I'll gather the others, and we'll meet in the conference room in twenty minutes. See you there.”

Clint nods, and Rogers leaves. Only then does he remember that he doesn't have a first idea where the conference room even _is_. He curses as he rolls down his shirt sleeve, still done up from the shots. A quick look around tells him that the nurse and the doc have retreated back to whatever lab they work in when they don't attend to patients, which means he's on his own. 

The facility isn't a maze, exactly, but it's also not really intuitive. He knows his way to the mess hall and the shooting range, to the back yard and the gym, but not beyond. He wanders through the corridors for a little while, hoping in vain that he'll run into someone to show him the way, tries to remember the tour Natasha gave him three weeks ago. She left out the tactical area of course, and by the time he manages to find them on his own, much more than twenty minutes have passed. 

They're all sitting around a sleek metal table already – Rogers, Natasha, the other Clint, and Hill – and he gets to run the gauntlet under disapproving glances. It's a familiar sensation. Somehow he doesn't think these guys will appreciate the running gag that lies in his perpetual lateness to team meetings. He sits down in the empty chair next to this world's Clint, mumbling excuses at no one in particular, which are met with a sideways glance from Hill, a corrective nudge from his alternate, and go unacknowledged by Rogers. Natasha continues to pretend he doesn't exist. 

“Now that we're complete,” Rogers says with a pointed glare, and yup, that could've come from his Cap, “let's have a look at the mission parameters.” 

All heads turn towards a hologram? screen on the other end of the room. It shows blue prints and a couple of photos, mostly headshots, satellite pictures of an old, European-looking building, and projections of what Clint assumes to be alien artifacts. Of course. Those again. 

“We have caught wind of a secret auction for stolen artifacts held this coming weekend in York, England, and guess what? I managed to get us an invite,” explains Rogers, and it dawns on Clint just what kind of mission they're talking about. 

 

***

 

Under different circumstances, Natasha would be excited. The assignment plays to her strengths, and, even though she won’t be the one in the spotlight, it’s the closest she’s come to an honest-to-god undercover mission since New York and the fall of SHIELD. Clint will be with her. It’s almost like old times.

The only thing that’s spoiling her good mood is the fact that they won’t be alone.

She's sitting on the huge, unused hotel bed and watches the other Clint frown at his reflection in the mirror. He pulls at the collar of his dress shirt like it’s suffocating him, and she tries very hard to avoid any thought about what’s _underneath_ said shirt. All through the flight, she feigned sleep, but now she's out of excuses to ignore him. 

“Did I mention I hate these things?” he grouses, rolling his shoulders and sending a longing glance to the regular street clothes both Natasha and her Clint get to wear. 

“Nah,” her Clint says, his grin a fraction to intense; anyone else probably wouldn't notice, but she identifies it as a hint that he's not thrilled about their team constellation for this mission either. She files the realization away for later. “Not in the last ninety seconds, at least.”

The other glares at him. “Can we dial back the schadenfreude?”

He proceeds to tug at the sleeves of his suit jacket, muttering to himself, although Natasha has to admit there’s nothing wrong with the fit at all. It’s great fit, really. Accentuates his strong back and the gloriously proportional waist in just the right way. He's just as attractive to her in a suit as he is in a t-shirt and low-hanging jeans, and remembering what he looks and sounds like during an orgasm really doesn't do much to dissuade _that_ epiphany. Because that happens to be a really good look on him too. 

She looks away, directs her attention to the file open in front of her. His cover is rather flimsy, wouldn’t hold up under close inspection, but it’ll do for tonight. All they need is to get him in. And sure, it’s a sound decision, sending him. Logical. Makes perfect sense. He’s the only one on the whole team whose face hasn’t been on national television at least twice a month lately.

Natasha closes her eyes for a second, breathes in, and glances back up. “You know your cover?”

“I’m no spy,” he complains, not for the first time, but he does rattle down name, age, occupation and background of his persona. When he’s done, he takes a step back and sighs dramatically. “I’m a terrible liar. I shoot things.”

“So do I,” her Clint argues. “You don’t have to go for an Oscar nomination tonight. Try not to stand out like a sore thumb, and you’ll be okay.” 

Natasha nods. “We only need you to get through the front door, so you can find the employee entrance and let us in. You got an invitation and a six-thousand-dollar suit. It'll work.” She sends a glance to the clock hanging above bed and stands. “Also, it's nearly showtime. Let's get going, boys.” 

That gets her two almost identical eyerolls, and it's amazing sometimes, the things they share. But they both trail after her when she grabs the two briefcases holding their gear for tonight and sashays out of the room first. They test the comms, as is standard procedure, and then go their separate ways – her and Clint slowly descend the stairs to the plaza, while the alternate crosses the street to the hidden auction house. From the outside, it looks like any other old-style British town house; the only thing signaling the event held inside are the gorilla-sized goons guarding the door in dark tuxedos about too strain from all the bulging hired muscle. 

Natasha watches the alternate march up to the entrance like he does, indeed, belong there, and relaxes a little. Despite his complaints and claims to contrary, he blends in well enough – the tense line of his back, visible even from a distance, gives away his nerves, but his voice through the comms is steady and confident as he hands the goons his invitation and banters about the dress code. Then he’s out of sight, and all they’ve got to keep track of him are the noise and pieces of conversation transmitted via comms. He accepts a drink. He fields a cougar trying to hit on him. Quickly, but not too early, he excuses himself to the bathroom. There’s a rustle of clothes and a clank while he, presumably, checks whether the stalls are unoccupied.

The result seems to be satisfactory; he announces, in a carefully low voice, designed to be audible only in his direct vicinity, “I’m in. Uh, obviously. Heading for the employee entrance next, get ready.”

“Well done so far. We’ll be there,” Natasha says with a smile, which dies when she feels the weight of her Clint’s gaze turn to her. They start walking towards the auction house. She closes the outgoing comm line and raises her eyebrows at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, because they probably won’t see the day when he’ll answer a question like that honestly on the first try. She glares. He sighs. It’s a well-rehearsed wordless exchange. “You seem… unusually fond.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Natasha counters. It comes out a little more harshly than intended.

Clint opens his mouth, closes it before another _nothing_ can make its way out, and sometimes Natasha wonders how Laura ever manages to have serious conversations with him and not hit him upside the head every two minutes. Another sigh, then: “You like him.”

That’s not new information, considering what she told him the first day he arrived at the facility, and she’s about to point that out, but then she realizes what he means. It’s one thing to be told she had a thing with his alternate, she guesses, and another altogether to see the signs of her… fondness, as he puts it, with his own two eyes.

But that’s not a conversation to have mid-mission, and they’ve almost rounded the auction house, coming at it through the back alley that connects to the employee entrance. Even if she herself had an answer to the question behind that statement, now is not the time. She looks at him, trying to convey just that – postponed, we’ll talk about it later – and switches the outgoing comm line to the alternate back on.

In that very moment, a shot from inside the building ripples through the night.

It’s close, the sound dimmed by a silencer, and Natasha’s heart nearly misses a beat. She whispers his name into the comms, wants to yell it but couldn’t without rising to give herself away. Instinct kicks in when she hears footsteps from the front of the building – the goons they saw guarding the entrance, probably – and a car advancing down the alley. Cursing under her breath, she exchanges a glance with her Clint, whose face is still more sympathetic than she's able to process right now. She's grateful when he wordlessly turns around to scan the buildings around them, nods at her when he's found his vantage point, and takes off. Natasha pulls a gun out of its holster, recalls the blueprints of the building from memory, and goes to look for another way in. 

 

***

 

Clint’s standing in the midst of a bunch of very confused kitchen personnel, his back pressed to a steel door that’s currently the only thing separating him from a somewhat displeased goon with a gun. Well. Said goon didn’t have said gun in his hands when Clint fled into the kitchen, but he neglected to pick it up or kick it away before he threw the door shut behind him, so… same difference. Goon. Gun. Same room. Doesn’t take a genius to work that one out.

This is exactly what happens when he tries to do spy work. He told them it’s not his forte. But does anyone ever listen to him? No. Of course not. Why pay attention to the guy with the bow? Except now he’s stuck in here and doesn’t even _have_ his bow. He’s stuck in here with no weapons and no convenient way out, he’s lost the earpiece of his comm – pure luck that his aid didn't go flying with it – and he can feel the wet patch on his upper arm where blood from a graze shot seeps into the fabric of this dumb, restricting, overly expensive suit.

He smiles sheepishly at the crowd before him, most of them frozen in whatever position they were in, spatulas and whisks paused mid-motion, some chattering, others sending longing looks to metal cabinets that promise to provide shelter. Clint briefly considers hiding behind one of them himself, but he has no reason to trust his audience they won’t point out his whereabouts the second his attacker works out another way into the kitchen. Besides, too much potential collateral damage. He’s not putting all these people at risk by staying in here longer than necessary.

And yeah, that thought breaks his stupor, and he shifts to take a look at the closing mechanism of the door he’s pressed against; it’s simple enough, so he locks it and steps away, takes a quick look around to orient himself. There’s a corridor to his left that presumably leads deeper into the guts of the building, which isn’t ideal, but one of the things he _does_ know about this line of work is that it’s better to keep moving than to play sitting duck in any one place. Slightly to his left, a kid that doesn’t look a day older than sixteen has been sorting cutlery into a tray. Clint pushes him away with an apologetic glance and arms himself with a handful of steak knives, shoves them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, then takes off down the unlit corridor. He doesn’t look for a light switch; he may not see where he’s going, like this, but anyone crossing his path also won’t see _him_ before he’s practically tripping over them.

But the only people he passes are maids and waiters, yelling at him to watch where the fuck he’s going. The corridor ends at an old-fashioned service elevator; Clint presses the button for upstairs, and he’s somewhat surprised when the thing actually whirs to life. Using it is a gamble, small space with no escape and only one way to go, but he hopes that’s exactly what’s making this his best option: that his attacker – or, by now, attackers, probably – will come to the conclusion that it’d be a risk he wouldn’t have taken and keep chasing their tails down here. Nevertheless, his heart is beating in his throat when the elevator pings, the sound so loud in his head that he’s expecting the whole house to hear it, and climbs in, pressing for the second floor out of four.

Nobody’s waiting for him as the door slides open, though. He peers out of the elevator carefully. The hallway up here is illuminated by two-armed chandeliers every couple of meters, and he’s looking a little worse for the wear, which makes casually blending in harder. The black fabric of his suit doesn’t show the blood, but it teared from the shot, giving way to the white of his dress shirt underneath, which is now soaked through with red. He keeps his injured side to the wall and his head down, and hopes for the best.

He curses when a door opens just moments before he’s about to pass it, slows his steps and angles his body even closer to the wall. Maybe if he’ll wait in the shadow of the open door and the person stepping out of the room will be headed in the same direction –

The person stepping out of the room is Natasha. She stares at him blankly, a little bit like she’s seeing a ghost, her gaze sweeping over him head to toe, stuttering at his injured arm, then swinging up to meet his eyes.

“You’re alive,” she says, and he’s not going to take the surprise in her voice personally.

“Well yeah,” he replies. “Obviously.”

“I got him,” she clarifies for the comm line to the other Clint, and frowns, nodding at his arm. “More or less in one piece. What happened?”

“One of the security gorillas stopped me on the way to the employee entrance,” Clint recaps. “Told me to turn around, pulled a gun on me when I didn’t immediately obey. We argued, he shot at me, I evaded, fled through the kitchen, took the service elevator upstairs, and here I am.”

He doesn’t ask how she managed to get in here, without the employee entrance being an available option anymore. Because, well. _Natasha Romanov_. Of course she found a way.

She listens to something on her comm and grimaces. “Yeah, I saw them. Fuck.” At Clint’s raised eyebrow, she explains, “We’ve got incoming. I got in with a hook through a window, and they spotted the broken glass. Where’s that elevator? Far from here?”

Clint looks around to orient himself – so sue him, he really isn't a spy, and his escape was somewhat hasty – and points down the hall the way he came. “Not really. Minute or two, tops.” 

She doesn't waste any time with a reply, just grabs him by his good arm and takes off, and he follows, at this point a little out of breath. Faint clatter and yelling announces the arrival of the _incoming_ the alternate warned them about, and Clint's heartbeat picks up further until they reach the elevator. It pings open right away, the lift still on their level from when he rode up here what already feels like ages ago, and he exhales as the steel doors slides shut in front of them and the elevator stutters into action. 

Natasha side-eyes him. “Too much adventure for you?” 

The dig is softened by the way she looks at him; fond and sort of worried, and hey, getting injured in front of his love interests has always been a vital – if unintentional – part of his wooing technique. He indicates his hips and back and frowns. “No gear. I feel naked.” 

For a second her eyes shadow as she, presumably, recalls what he actually _looks like_ sans clothes, and he will admit it's somewhat gratifying. Of course it doesn't last long; she visibly composes herself and sighs for effect. “Archers. Why do I always get stuck with you _archers_.” 

 

***

 

She was hoping to manage a more or less quiet escape through the service entrance, after all, weaving back through the kitchen, maybe acquire a change of clothes to fit in better, but that plan is busted as soon as the elevator doors spring open and they're looking straight at three goons with their automatic guns raised. Not impossible odds, but with a partner she doesn't know very well yet, has no rapport with... Natasha curses under hear breath and feels for the gun hidden beneath her dress, choosing not to reveal it for the moment, see what happens, keep the option open to play clueless wayward party guests. 

When she glances over to him, Clint actually _grins_. 

“Hey,” he says, holding his hands up. “I get having to wait for the ride up is annoying, but that's no reason to point a gun at someone's face.” 

Natasha suppresses a groan – covering fear with bravado is another thing both Barton versions share, and it's unnerving either way – and keeps her hand on the gun. She still doesn't draw; the goons look at each other confusedly, and while she doesn't believe for a second that they'll buy this stupid ruse, they're hesitating, which points to the assumption that they just know about _intruders_ in the building but have no idea what they look like. The injury on Clint's arm is hard to miss even in the dim light, and they'll catch on soon, she knows. 

The momentary distraction seems to be all Clint was banking on, though, because he turns to nod at her hand, signaling for her to get her gun out, and takes a step back. Before she can have an educated guess about what he might be planning, he jumps up, taking a hold of the edge of the metal door frame, and propels himself forward. He all but _vaults_ over their attackers, making half a spin the air, and lands on his feet on the other side of the little goon squad. While they all swing around, Natasha does get her gun out and leaps at one of them, pressing the gun muzzle to his head, and Clint – inelegantly but effectively – punches a second one flat in the face, hard enough that he reels back into the third, which is convenient, because it knocks the shot he was about to fire off center so that it ricochets off the wall instead of hitting Clint, where it would have inevitably landed otherwise. Natasha makes short work taking out the goon in her grip and moves on to number three, disarming him, as Clint finishes off number two. Once it's lights out for all three attackers, they dispose of them by way of sending them back upstairs with the elevator and resume their trek to the kitchen, and after that, hopefully, the service entrance. 

He marches ahead and for just a moment, she hangs back, watching him. Wondering if she's been underestimating him all this time; if maybe they all have. He isn't a spy. He's not _her_ Clint. He doesn't possess the same skill set. But if his story really is true, and that seems more and more likely, he's looking back at a similar amount of field experience, a different range of abilities. 

He turns around, eyebrows raised, obviously alarmed. “Something wrong?”

Natasha shakes her head. “No, I think we're good for now.” She speeds up her steps to catch up to him. “What was that? Where'd you learn it?” 

“The circus,” he says, his tone implying that he expects her to interrupt or wave him off, doubt him, accuse him of lying. She has no intention to do either, stays silent, and after a moment he continues. “I was nine when my brother and me ran away from the orphanage they stuck us in after our parents died. We joined the circus. It's where I learned to shoot, among other things.” 

From what he told her, nine or ten is about the same age her Clint started training too; he did it because it was the hobby of his foster mother. The one who ended up adopting him with her husband, supporting him, giving him the opportunity to pursue a career as an athlete. Natasha knows he didn't have an easy early childhood either, but at least after that, his youth was straightforward and save; she imagines this Clint didn't have the benefit of either. 

She shakes the thought off. “And said other things included show horse acrobatics?” 

He shrugs. “Comes in handy.” 

It surely does; he demonstrated as much. Before Natasha can tell him as much, a commotion up ahead in the general area of the kitchen has her holding up a hand. Clint halts and cocks his head, listening in. There's people talking over each other, normal background noise in a kitchen, except that it doesn't quite _sound_ normal. Something's off about it, and it takes Natasha a second to figure out what's bugging her.

“No clatter,” she says, half to herself, when it clicks. “No sizzling, nothing. They're just talking.” 

Clint's face scrunches up as he works out what that means. “So much for our way out.” 

Not entirely a surprise; Clint did pass through here once before, and left his initial attacker behind. Choosing this escape route was a gamble, a last ditch attempt at escaping without having to shoot their way out. Time for a new plan, but first, time to find cover, regroup, contact her Clint and consider all options. She looks around, the only possible hideaway presenting itself in the form of a supply closet a little way back. Natasha reaches out to tug at Clint's arm, silent signal for him to follow. The door is easy to pick – nothing much of value between brooms and cleaning agents – and they slip inside just before a set of voices grows louder, footsteps advancing in their direction. Carefully, she pulls the door closed, and it's not until after the telltale click that she realizes she's locked them in. 

She feels along the wall by the door and flicks a naked light bulb to life, and yep, a quick glance brings confirmation. “Fuck.” Clint's eyebrows rise, and she points at the door, the lack of a handle, and the blank metal plays where the lock should have been. “Only opens from the outside.” 

“We're trapped,” he says, running a hand down his face. “Okay. Yeah. Fuck.” 

Natasha taps her come, says Clint's name, and it crackles to life only moments later. She does her best to keep her voice even and calm as she reports, keep the frustration out of it, and her move doesn't improve much when she hears him sigh at her. Not to be condescending; he wouldn't do that in the middle of a mission. Their way out of here isn't going to be as easy as waiting for a few minutes for him to get inside and find them. 

“What is it?” she prompts.

Through the comm line, her Clint sighs again. “They've surrounded the building.” He pauses and she can all but picture him, forehead in crinkles, thinking. “I can get inside to get you, but it won't be quick.” 

There's an edge to his voice that says _the only way to get to you fast would be shooting everyone_ , coupled with the silent question as to whether she'll need him to do just that. But there's no reason for a blood bath; they've already raised a lot more attention that originally planned. Unless someone's seen them disappear in here, which she thinks they'd have been made away of by now, they're relatively safe in here. 

“We can wait,” she says. “I doubt sweeping the floors is going to be anyone's priority right now.” 

He confirms and promises to keep her updated, and she puts the comms back on standby, leans back against the wall and closes her eyes. Her Clint excels at companionable silence, and against her better judgment that's what she expects now too; they can sit beside each other for hours without a single word spoken, their mutual presence enough to keep one another calm. 

The Clint she's with makes it for roughly two minutes before he lets out a long breath and breaks the silence. “I never understood why anyone'd do that. With the lock.” 

Natasha presses her eyelids closer together, once, before she opens her eyes and glares at him. “What?” 

He's leaning against the opposite wall of the small room, with just his hip and one foot pressed to the wall, examining the sleeve of his ruined jacket. “I mean, why make it one way? How often do you think they need to rescue a maid from one of these closets, 'cause the door fell shut while she was putting away rags and brooms? It's stupid. Impractical.” 

She hmms, and for another couple minutes, he gets the hint, keeps silent and resists airing his thoughts on the plight of unlucky cleaning personnel. 

Then he exhales again. “I'm sorry.” 

Natasha narrows her eyes at him, cocks her head. “Missions go sideways. It happens. Not your fault.” 

She has an inkling that's not what he means, and suddenly she wishes she'd let him ramble on about that poor imaginary maid instead. 

He frowns, and yeah, definitely not what he was getting at here. “No. I know. I mean, about... us. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – “ 

“We,” she corrects, because although she never had to have a discussion about an awkward hookup with her Clint, she recognizes the tendency to try and always carry the blame for a screw-up all by himself, even when they _both_ made the call. “I agree, maybe we shouldn't have, but we've both been present. We both made the decision. It might have been a mistake, but it was _our_ mistake, not yours alone.” 

He blinks, stopped dead in his tracks, but there's the ghost of a smile too. She quickly identifies which kind – fond memories. Whatever she did, it reminds him of someone. Most likely, well, _herself_. 

“Let me guess,” he says after a little while. “Your Clint's got that... what'd she call it, martyr complex too?” 

Natasha cracks a small smile of her own. “Yes. And your Natasha has no patience for that bullshit either?” 

For a moment, they just stand there and smile awkwardly at one another, a warm sensation spreading through her that she isn't sure she's ready for, but that she can't bring herself to stomp down on. Then his features grow tense and guilt-ridden all over again, and his mouth tightens into a thin line. Deciding he's not going to let himself get away so easily, then. She's familiar with that reaction as well. She's about to chide him for that, too, but he's faster. 

“The difference is, you don't have any... baggage, about this. About us. I've been with my Natasha. I loved her. You have no idea how much. And I still do, kind of. It's not the kind of love that just goes away.” He averts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Us, here, now, I'm worried that I'd betray you both. You because of my history with her, and her... ah, I don't know. It feels wrong, somehow. It also feels incredibly, _incredibly_ right, but I don't know – “

“Stop,” she says, because she's worried too, that he'll keep on flaying himself if she doesn't put an end to it here and now, that he'll talk himself into a guilty conscience about maybes and what-ifs for no reason. “You and her, you're done, though, yes? You're not together anymore?” 

“Yeah,” he replies, eyes still to the floor. 

“Good. Do you want that to change? Over in your own universe, have you been thinking about getting back together?” 

He mutely shakes his head. 

The next question is a bit harder to ask than its predecessors, even though she believes to know the answer, but Natasha doesn't miss a beat. “Did you only hook up with me because I remind you of her?” 

His head shoots back up like he's been lashed, gaze snapping to hers. “No. No, don't even think that, I like _you_ , it's not just some creepy replacement, I'm – “

“Then I don't see a problem,” she interrupts, trying not to give way to the relief, the stupid elation, that comes from having him hurry to deny that accusation. “And if she's anything like me, neither will your Natasha.” 

She watches as he fights to believe her, accept that he's done nothing wrong, then steels himself for something else. “So, uh. Do you think it _was_ a mistake?” 

In truth, it may have been. It was too fast, obviously, and too early, neither of them equipped to handle the complicated situation it put them in, and she regrets _that_. What she doesn't regret, though, is that it happened in the first place, and so she rolls her eyes and beckons him closer with one crooked finger. “Come over here.” 

His eyes widen, one eyebrow quirked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says, as loud and clear as she dares, considering they're still hiding from armed goons. “I'm sure. _Come here._ ”

He still looks like he expects the waves to crash in over his head any second, after all, but he obeys, steps closer and stares at her expectantly. Realizing he won't be the one to actually make the first move, Natasha grabs him by the collar of his expensive suit to pull his head down and seals her lips to his. Tense at first, he doesn't need long to relax into it, put his hands on either side of her hips, and gently spin them until she's the one with her back to the wall. He picks her ups with ease, shifts to take all of her weight as she wraps her legs around his torso and slings her arms around his neck. She can't pinpoint who deepens the kiss; it's give and take, push and pull, and she's about to get lost in it. 

Except that's when the comm crackles with static, followed by the her Clint's voice. “Okay, guys, I'm in. Tell me exactly where you are.” 

Natasha draws back to break the kiss, buries her forehead against this Clint's neck for a second before she taps his shoulder to make him set her down. “Well, what's your position?” 

 

***

 

Their escape out of the building isn't precisely uneventful, but Clint doesn't add much to it besides cowering behind them while the two actual spies shoot at everything that moves. He's man enough to do that without endangering his masculinity, he hates guns and that's all he'd have to fall back on right now, and besides, he's taken enough bullets lately. They don't run into too much resistance anyway – the goon squad is probably assuming they're upstairs, and searching there. 

From there on it's back to the motel and waiting for exfil, which mostly happens in silence. There's an elephant in the room that none of them are talking about, but still, more than anything, he's relieved. Clint sits through the attentions of a medic on the plane back, endures the sideways glances form his alternate. Natasha doesn't talk to him much beyond checking on how he's doing. He doesn't worry about that, didn't expect her behavior towards him in public to change, and eventually nods off to hushed conversations that he neither needs nor wants to spend any energy on deciphering. 

Hours later, he's woken up by a hand on his shoulder and Natasha's voice in his ear, bend in close, face almost touching his; it's the only thing that keeps him from startling violently. The engine noise has ceased and when he glances out of the window, he finds a green field rather than blue skies. He blinks, and she's meeting his eyes; he blinks again and her gaze has dropped to his lips. They're alone – apparently she waited for everyone else to leave before she went to wake him up, and he finds he's grateful for that. 

He sits upright and rubs his temple. “We home?” 

“Yeah,” she confirms, gesturing for him to get up. “We landed half an hour ago, but I figured I'd let you sleep until the flight personnel started complaining. Which it did, by now, they want to call it a day too, so here I am.” 

His body sends him complaints from multiple sources as he stands; sore muscles and an aching back from the odd sleeping position, and a slight sting from his arm. He ignores them all and trots after her without so much as a groan, pleasantly surprised when she leads him straight to his room and closes the door behind herself. 

“No debriefing?” he inquires, letting out a pleased little noise as he reaches the bed and plops down, and and Natasha gives him a smile that somehow manages to be both gentle and predatory. 

“Clint and me took care of that,” she says, still by the door, as if she's not entirely sure of whether or not she wants to stay. The moment she makes her decision is palpable, and she beings to slowly saunter over to the bed, unhurried, but not hesitant. “He managed to get some data from a tablet on of the goons had been carrying, so the mission wasn't a complete waste.” 

“Oh,” he says, watching her approach, toeing off his shoes and bending down to pull of his socks. “Good. So we're done for the day?” 

“Yes.” By now she's reached the bed, and she's standing in front of it, looking at him. “Which is convenient, because I have plans for the two of us.” 

Clint gets his arms underneath himself and leans back, propped up on his elbows. “Do you now?” 

“Yeah,” she says, dropping onto the bed next to him and leaning back, too, mirroring his position. The edge to her smile is definitely edging towards predatory now, despite her casual demeanor. “They involve peeling you out of that suit very, very slowly.” 

As soon as the words are out, she leans in to kiss him, and because he might be tired and sore but isn't a total ass, and also has his priorities in order, he cranes his neck to meet her. The angle isn't great, and relatively quickly Clint decides that he needs to get them into a better positions, and so he draws back, sitting back up, slips off his jacket and quirks an eyebrow. 

“Then go ahead,” he says. 

Confusion clouds Natasha's face for all but a second, but then it clicks and she pushes herself up as well, kneeling on the bed in front of him. Slowly, as promised, she begins to unbutton his dress shirt, her fingers not-so-accidentally brushing the skin underneath. Once that's done, she slides it down his shoulders, and he holds his arms out behind himself so she can maneuver it all the way off. 

She shifts and crawls atop of him, straddling his hips, lets her hands run over his shoulders, back, stomach. When his dick starts to take enough of an interest that she'd feel it against her thigh, she cocks her head and grins, cants her hips so they're pressed closer together, and places both hands on his chest, pushing until he takes the hint and lies down. She leans in for another kiss, quick and deep and dirty, and withdraws to skid off him altogether, kneeling next to him on the bed. 

Expecting her to simply finish what she started and rid him of the dress pants next, he closes his eyes, and sucks in a breath when she presses her palm to his erection instead, massaging him teasingly through the fabric instead; not enough pressure to get him anywhere, but it still short-circuits every ongoing thought in his brain for a moment, partly because it's a such a surprise. He fights to keep his hands to himself, not shorten the proceedings by dragging her over and kissing her stupid, and after a moment, she stops, resuming the process of undressing him. Deft fingers make quick work of undoing his fly, and she smooths a hand down his thigh to make him lift his ass so she can pull them down, taking his underwear off alongside. 

“So,” she says, and he can _hear_ her grinning. 

“So,” he parrots, opening his eyes and shifting halfway onto his side, one leg bent at the knee. It's a bit of a ridiculous pose, but it serves the intended purpose, making her gaze fall to his crotch. “What about you, wanna catch up?” 

“Not yet.” She lays down beside him and reaches out to place her hand on his chest, over his heart, then traces a line down from his collarbone all the way down to his base of his cock with her fingertips, the barely-noticable touch much more intense than it has any right to be. There, she pauses. 

Clint gives up on posing or any pretense of patience and rolls fully onto his back, spreading his legs, giving her perfect access to whatever she may want to focus her attentions on next. Which, yeah. He's got a preference there. He's a simple guy, all for the classics. 

But she doesn't continue her journey. She rises off the bed, takes a wrapped condom out of a pocket in her jacket and throws it at him, starts stripping herself while he puts it on. 

“You carry condoms with you?” he says, watching her peel out of her pants and fitted shirt. There's no much performance too it, she treats it like getting rid of an annoying obstacle in order to achieve her end goal, but he still enjoy the sight. 

“Usually not.” Natasha bends down to step out of her panties and kick them aside. “But well, I had some time to myself while you were busy napping on the plane.”

“Oh, so you really did plan ahead.” 

He sits up, holds out a hand, which she takes and uses to balance herself as she gets back onto the bed and climbs on top of him, the same position as earlier but this time not involving any clothes whatsoever. Leaning down, she pushes him onto his back and plants both hands on his chest. 

“Ready?” she asks, and he's about to point out what a superfluous question that is, evidence of the answer pressing up against her body, but from the way she's canting her hips, circling them just so, it seems to have been a rhetorical question anyway. 

Getting them lined up hands-free takes some maneuvering, torturous and teasing and wonderful in itself, and then she's sinking down on him, slowly, holding his gaze, and that's perfectly fine with him – he couldn't tear his eyes away from her face even if he wanted to. She lets him see the slight shudder when he's all the way inside and carefully starts moving; the wicked edge to her expression when she digs her nails in, not enough to break the skin or actually hurt, more of a quiet reprimand, or maybe encouragement, he can't really tell. He opts to keep up his small thrusts regardless, rewarded by another twist with her hips and a barely audible moan. They settle into a slow pace, giving credit to the fact that they've both been awake for the better part of the last twenty-four hours, exhaustion looming around the corner to rush in just as soon as all the leftover adrenaline has left their systems. He lifts one arm to wrap around her waist, hand fanned out on the small of her back, because he can't quite make himself stay passive. Orgasm creeps up on him, already half there before he can stave it off; he's perceptive enough to realize once he's done that she didn't get her due, and he's about to apologize, but decides that actions speak louder than words. Using his hold on her hips he flips them so she's the one lying on her back, and slides down her body, pushing her legs open and settling on his stomach between them. He searches for her gaze while he parts her labia, and on her nod, licks a stripe down the middle, then gently presses his tongue against her core. It doesn't take much before her the muscles in her thighs tighten under his touch, her breathing becoming erratic, and he doesn't let up until she curses and bats at his head, suddenly oversensitive in the aftershocks. 

He licks his lips and grins at up her. “That was fun. Would come again.”

Natasha's busy reaching behind herself, adjusting the cushions to make herself comfortable, but she pauses in order to give him a pointed eyeroll. “I can't believe I'm sleeping with you.” 

He catches the implication that it's going to be an ongoing thing, sleeping with him, and chooses not to comment. It does help keeping the grin in place – at least until her expression grows more serious, and his mood swings around in response. 

Upon noticing that, she shakes her head, smiling gently. “Don't worry. Nothing's wrong. No second thoughts.” She pauses, arm trembling as if she's fighting down the urge to touch, to comfort, or maybe that's wishful thinking on his part. “I'd like you to tell me about your Natasha.” 

“You wanna talk about her? Now?” he asks, although on second thought, the timing is such a _Natasha_ thing that he almost has to laugh. Of course she would. ”She's not mine anymore. Hasn't been for a very long time, if she ever really was.”

She cocks her head. "What does that mean?" 

Clint rolls onto his back, rids himself of the condom, ties it off and throws it into the bin by the bed, then crosses his arms behind his head and turns to look her in the eye. If he missteps here, he wants to know immediately, so he'll have to pay close attention. “I wasn’t even twenty when we met. Shit's been happening and I was out of the circus, street kid with a rap sheet and delusions of grandeur after catching Iron Man saving a bunch of people out on Coney Island and fooling myself into thinking I could maybe try that myself. You know, saving people.” 

“You didn't fool yourself,” she says, the kind of look on her face that means she's recognized selling himself short as a shared Barton trait, that she's familiar with it and doesn't find it cute. “You're an Avenger now, aren't you?” 

“Took a few detours to get there,” he explains. “For both of us. God, I was so dumb. And so in love.” 

“What happened?” she prompts, and he weighs how much he wants to tell her; how much of that story is his to tell, and which parts she might have experienced myself. None of it is hallmark movie material. 

In the end, he settles for honesty. “I don't know how much of what happened to her happened to you, too. She was... when we met, she was brainwashed, and they did that to her repeatedly after she failed her mission and they called her back.” 

Her eyes widen, not quite shock but surprise, and he's flooded with sudden relief. She didn't have to go through that, then, at least not to such extremes. “What was her mission?”

“Taking out Iron Man,” Clint replies, chuckling. “Spoiler alert: we failed.” 

“ _We _?” she inquires.__

__“Yeah. I helped her. Like I said, I was in love. I would have taken on an army for her.”_ _

__Natasha's lips quirk, her smile becoming more knowing. “Would have, hm?”_ _

__No matter which Romanoff he's facing, he'll apparently always be an open book to all of them. “Still would. She's my best friend. There's no one else in this world – or that world, I guess, or any – who I trust more.”_ _

__And well, this particular Romanoff moves in closer, puts her head on his chest and glances up to him. “I promise I'll do everything in my power to give you back to her unharmed.”_ _

__He'd consider that an odd declaration, but he's not entirely sure she's making it to _him_ , and it... well, yeah, it's in character. But that also means it's not his promise to accept, and so he doesn't reply, just hauls himself up so they're level, bends to press his lips to the top of her head and then reaches for the light switch near the nightstand, flicking it off. _ _

__

__***_ _

__

__Natasha leaves Clint's bed without waking him the next morning, gets dressed quickly and quietly. He hardly stirs, burrows deeper into his pillow and groans, and this time she doesn't try to fight the warm, fond feeling that spreads through her at the sight._ _

__She makes a brief stop at her quarters to shower and change, and then goes to clear the air with the other Barton. The first place she looks for him is a success already; he's at the range, not shooting, just sitting on the counter next to his gear. He nods at her when she enters, shifts to make room so she can sit down next to him._ _

__“I've been looking for you earlier,” he says and picks up his bow, faced away from her, investigating a scrape in the surface of the carbon with his fingernail. “You weren't in your quarters.”_ _

__There's an unspoken question, one he doesn't have to ask and she doesn't have to answer. Natasha just smiles and puts her hand on his, stilling him._ _

__He sets the bow aside again and turns around. “So I'm guessing the two of you are an item now?”_ _

__“Well,” she says with a shrug. “We're _something_.” _ _

__The thought makes him squirm, literally, like a teenager that's been sat down for an uncomfortable conversation about a parent's new significant other. It should look ridiculous on a man his age, but somehow that's not the case. He just looks confused._ _

__"I don't know if I'm okay with that,” he says, shoulders slumping. “I mean, I don't have a right to veto who you get involved with, that's your business, but... he's kinda me, and he's kinda not, and you being with him, uh, it's odd. Isn't it? Can I say that? It's odd, for me."_ _

__Natasha weighs that question, inspects it from various angles, takes her time to answer. “I guess it _is_ odd. But trust me, you two are plenty different. And while I get how it'd be weird for you, me and him together, trust me when I promise you that it's got nothing to do with your similarities.”_ _

__She could try and explain that further, but hopes he doesn't ask her to do that. She isn't even sure she could put it into words; there's an openness in the alternate that her Clint doesn't have, easy and open and trusting while at the same time incredibly guarded, and she understands one while being intrigued by the other. Saying as much in a way that won't make her sounds stupid might be nigh impossible._ _

__Apparently, that's not what's on his mind anyway. Clint narrows his eyes at her and inhales. “Did you ever, I mean...”_ _

__He trails off, but Natasha can guess the rest of the question. “Think of you that way? No. Never.” She leans over and nudges him. “I can promise you, Clint is not a name I ever expected or planned to moan during sex.”_ _

__The noise that escapes him in response is part disgust, part annoyance, and all Clint. “Wow. Okay. Let's just not go there.”_ _

__Natasha grins and sets about exploiting this newly discovered weak spot a little more before changing the topic. She does enjoy making him squirm. She's his best friend. It's in the job description. "In case you were wondering, by the way, he's a _fantastic_ lay. The whole _pretty boy doesn't try enough_ shtick? Definitely not a problem he's got." _ _

__Clint's expression tips over into full-on disgust. “Really not the kind of information I need to have.” He shudders for effect. Then something seems to occur to him and his face lights up, grinning back at her. "So you think he's pretty? I'll tell him you said that."_ _

__Natasha rolls her eyes and slides off the counter, brushes imaginary dust off her clothes and fixes her shirt; it was rolled up from the sitting position. She's got a meeting with Rogers in half an hour, and another training session with Wanda and Sam later. But there's one more thing she needs to hear first._ _

__“We're okay, right?” she asks, dread coiling in her belly against her better judgment, despite knowing they will be, eventually, even if he doesn't confirm it now. “Tell me we're okay.”_ _

__Clint smiles at her gently. “We'll always be okay. It'd take a lot more than an alternate with a pretty face to change what we have.”_ _

__She nods and makes to leave, briefly stops in the doorway to watch him pick up his bow and take position, line up a shot. He notices her presence, of course, turns to wink at her before he nocks and releases, hitting dead center, as usual._ _

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued... ;)


End file.
